


now a soft kiss

by cuddlefighter (bibbasaur)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Arranged Marriage, Blatant Disregard Of NHL Trades, Does This Count As A Harlequin Romance, Friends to Lovers, Jonathan Toews Is Dirt Poor, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Patrick Kane Is Filthy Rich, Period Appropriate Lack of Knowledge Regarding Male Pregnancies, Slow Burn, There Are Cameos Left Right And Center In This Fic So Have Fun, They're Still Roommates In This Fic, This Is Basically Georgette Hayer With Jocks, Wow Did I Just Write That Tag Yes I Did, i think it does, of a fashion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 70,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibbasaur/pseuds/cuddlefighter
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of an excellent fortune—and running away from his past—must be in want of a pretend husband.





	1. a marriage most convenient

* * *

**Spring comes and with it the sweet profusion of Columbines, Lilacs, Small Daisies, Peonies, Sweet Briars and Mignonnettes in the countryside. It's the Season where Sir John Vanbrugh and Nicholas Hawksmoor's stately Gardens once again thrive—Castle Howard, Blenheim Palace, Claremont House, and even the once-grand Hawke House—all modelled after the late Sun King's Versailles...**

**(Excerpt from _The Botanical Magazine_ )**

* * *

_March 1810, England_

_Spring_

Jonathan, Lord Toews, married Mr. Patrick Kane of New York on a cold, late Wednesday evening.

They were married in the crumbling glory of the grand ballroom of Jon's family's ancestral seat, Hawke House, while the March rain pounded on the grimy French doors that opened to the estate's overgrown gardens. With the exclusion of themselves and the aging priest, only three other people were in attendance—Seabrook, who served as Jon's valet, Keith, the estate manager and the ducal family's man of affairs, and Sharp, his solicitor. Patrick had no one.

Mr. Kane, who rode post-haste from London, only had a small leather satchel for his personal effects and nothing else. Jon saw him as he entered the ballroom, a small figure huddled against his greatcoat. His collar was damp from the rain and his hands shook from the cold while Jon slipped the wedding ring on his pale finger. The ring was his grandfather's signet and Jon didn't have the time to have it cleaned, so the silver was dull and looked out of place among Mr Kane's other rings, which were dazzling in their ostentation.

After the priest mumbled his prayers and made the necessary religious ablutions, Sharp set the register in front of them. It would seal the ceremony, the legal proof that the marriage had taken place, and Jon's surety in dragging his family out from the looming specter of disgrace and the debtor's prison. Jon took the pen from Sharp, signing his name along the line quickly. He then gave the pen to Mr. Kane, who gripped it tight before swallowing and signing his name, hand faltering on _Toews_.

Once done, Sharp snapped the register shut and clapped Jon on the back. He and Keith bowed to Mr. Kane, now Patrick, Lord Blackburg-Hawke, and murmured their congratulations. Seabrook ushered them out along with the priest, who was keen to go, the drafty corridors of Hawke House not a welcome place for a man of eighty suffering from arthritis.

Seabrook shut the heavy double doors behind him and only Jon and Mr. Kane were left in the ballroom. Mr. Kane, who was now suddenly made aware of his surroundings, did a slow-turn, looking around curiously and frowning at the sagging wallpaper and ruined tapestries, his footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust and dirt covering the floor. Once again, Jon felt the bitter shame of poverty.

"Well, my lord Toews. You've now found yourself with a fortune and I, well, seem to have found myself with a title," he spoke quietly, hand trailing on the grimy mantel above the unlit fireplace. Jon grew up hearing how the fireplaces in Hawke House had roared with life during Christmastime, in his grandfather's years. The fireplaces now remained cold.

Mr. Kane's finger followed the curl of a carved acanthus leaf that bracketed the fireplace. He looked up at Jon, his eyes tired and resigned.

Jon felt chagrined. He'd been centered too long in his problems that he'd forgotten what this marriage had also cost Mr. Kane—lonely from being far away from home—now bound to a stranger who he had to hand a sizable portion of his wealth to. Jon didn't have any illusions on what the man felt about him—a penniless son of a duke who married his way to a fortune—but Jon suddenly felt he very much wanted him to know that although this was a loveless union, Jon would still uphold his end of the bargain by doing him honor as his husband. As well as his damnedest to at least have the decency of being Mr. Kane's friend. He really needed to begin referring to him as Patrick, as calling his husband 'Mr. Kane' would simply not do.

"We can dispense with the titles," Jon said gently. "You may call me Jon. And please let me know if I may call you Patrick."

"You may. You are my husband now, after all." He looked at Jon up and down, as if only taking him in for the first time. Jon felt uncomfortable being scrutinized but, best that he see what his money had bought, Jon thought drily.

"Not Lord Jon?" Mr. Kane—Patrick asked, head tilted to one side. "Or Your Highness?"

"That's for the Prince," Jon corrected.

"Your Excellency?" Patrick asked again. "Or Your Munificence?"

Jon, whose sense of humor wasn't as sharp even in the best of days, finally caught on and laughed. "Now you're just teasing me."

"My sisters and I were taught that a little light humor was acceptable for politesse with strangers." Patrick gave a small smile, wry.

 _Strangers._ That sobered him. Jon glanced around, now mindful of the lateness of the hour. "I've readied your rooms at the inn. You can't stay here."

"Is the new Lord Blackburg-Hawke not welcome in his husband's house?" Patrick said lightly.

Jon shook his head. "Not this house. No one has lived here for years."

Patrick took one last look around. Some of the gilt in the cornices and fixtures shone through, a few bright spots in an otherwise gloomy room. "Pity," he murmured, as he spied the rats scurrying in the dim corner. "But probably for the best."

Burish, in one of his occasional visits to Blackburg, had once gossiped to Jon and his men that Patrick Kane—whose father was a railroad baron and whose mother was a coal and steel heiress—had lived with his family in a grand house in New York with nearly a hundred rooms, had a four-storey townhouse in perpetual lease to him in Grosvenor Square, a villa in Florence rumored to be built by a long-dead Medici for his mistress, and a castle bought from a minor archduke in Dresden. Compared to the eye-watering wealth of the Kanes, Jon's family had discreetly moved out of Hawke House when the upkeep had become too unmanageable, with little to no funds to spare for the brigade of servants and the cost of all the sundries needed to keep it running. Many of the villagers had offered to help but their old aristocratic pride balked at the charity. Jon's family packed what they could and lived for several years down the road from the main house, on the edges of the estate. Gilbert Hall was respectable enough to receive family, and needed only the occasional maid or cook when their London cousins came visiting, but not large enough or grand enough to formally receive more guests. A world away from the gilt and glass luxury of the Kane fortune.

"I hope that you don't mind that you be housed in the inn for now, while we work on the arrangements of our marriage," Jon spoke, apologetic. "Come." Jon extended his hand. Patrick gingerly took it, sliding his own hand stiffly in the crook of Jon's arm.

Realization came as to why Patrick was nervous, and it once again reminded Jon of the circumstances that brought them together.

"You'll forgive me if I won't join you tonight and be remiss in my…" He could feel Patrick's subtle intake of breath. " _Duties_."

"Forgiven, my lord." Patrick inclined his head, composed, but relief obviously clear in his tone. The thought of Patrick fear-stiff and cold under him gave Jon no pleasure.

"I know that you're tired from your journey. A good night's rest would be wonderful for you, I think," Jon chattered on to fill in the silence that Patrick had left him with. "Dinner—the innkeeper's wife makes a delightful ragout—and a hot bath. Would you like Seabrook to attend to you while you wait for your valet?"

The priest had left and only Sharp, Keith, and Seabrook were in the courtyard, waiting for them. After a few quick introductions ("Seabrook, we call him Seabsy; Keith, also known as Duncs; and there's Sharp who goes by Sharpy") they gave their polite hellos, after which Keith and Sharp took their final bows and left. Jon helped Patrick up his horse, checking the stirrups and saddle for him. He then mounted his own and with a nod to Seabrook and Patrick, clicked his tongue so that they could ride at a quick trot to the inn.

Once they arrived, Jon gestured for Seabrook to enter the inn, while he helped Patrick down himself. His hands guided Patrick on his back and at his waist, where he noticed that underneath the silks and expensive fawn, Patrick was defined with muscle, which made his shorter stature and corn silk-and-copper curls deceptive.

"I won't see you up to your rooms, but I hope you have a restful night," Jon said, rueful. "Well then," Jon continued awkwardly, when it seemed that no response from Patrick was forthcoming. "I should go."

"Thank you," Patrick finally said, just as Jon was turning his back to leave.

Jon smiled. "It was a short ride, it wasn't a bother."

Patrick nodded, but they both knew it wasn't what he meant.

* * *

**NH,**

**I saw him twice again in London, and he is as handsome as ever. The first time was when I called out to him in the street, and he nodded at me. The second was when we went to White's with Claude for a drink and a game of cards. I know that this sounds foolish, and you mustn't ever dare laugh, but my heart felt as if it was about to burst. I kept composed, as you have advised.**

**NP**

* * *

Jon was greeted the next morning with a cacophony of loud noises from men, women, and animal alike. Juliette, running leisurely beside him during his ride to the inn, barked at the strange and exciting new noises and smells, prompting one of the wagon horses to shy away nervously.

In the inn's courtyard and spilling out to the dusty road were several coaches and wagons, piled high with trunks and furniture, a hive of activity surrounding them. Hired men from the village were lifting chests and crates down from where they were secured with rope, while a group of the inn's maids rolled open and dusted various soft furnishings. One of the men accidentally tripped, the trunk that he was hefting on one shoulder spilling out books and scattering papers across the courtyard.

"Careful!" A tall man bellowed, kneeling to hurriedly catch the loose pieces of paper. He was young and handsome and dressed in an inexpensive but finely-made and well-fitting coat. He had a haughty, studious air and carried what looked like a thick ledger under one arm.

"What's all this?" Jon asked Seabrook. From the distance, he could see Patrick talking to two other men, who were listening intently to his instructions.

"Your husband has brought half of Pall Mall and Fortnum & Mason's with him." Seabrook leaned on one of the inn's hitching posts, pointing at the crates full of what looked like jars of food, bottles of wine and bundles of beeswax tapers. There was a small leather case that looked like it only contained expensive sheaves of thick paper. "And what looks like trunks of clothes that could dress all the dandies of London." Jon watched as Juliette gingerly sniffed at one richly-varnished trunk, a frilled hem from what seemed to be Patrick's shirt—judging by the delicate lacework—peeking out from the sides. "Three of those coaches are for your husband's trousseau alone and the remaining four are for his books and furnishings. I haven't even counted the wagons that have his men's things."

"My lord!" Patrick, momentarily looking away from the two men that he was talking to while checking one of the carriages, saw Jon and exclaimed in surprise. This prompted the others to all turn to look at Jon as one.

"Is he the marquess?" the smallest man asked, eyes wide with curiosity, face friendly and open. "The way that they spoke about him made him sound quite homely and dull," he whispered sideways to his other companions. "He doesn't look homely _or_ dull."

"One thing remains true from what they said, though. He _doesn't_ look rich," the tallest one with the ledger loudly observed, looking at Jon up and down from his worn brown boots, to his plain coat and linen shirt. The third man beside them, whose wild, thick hair was combed back to give him an air of respectability, pointedly cleared his throat and glared at both of his companions to keep silent.

Patrick, smoothly ignoring his men's exchange, bowed courteously at Jon, before glancing back at them and raising his eyebrows expectantly. The three followed suit quickly.

"My men and some of my property have arrived," Patrick explained. "They came before dawn."

"Where will they stay?" Jon asked.

"The entire inn has been kind enough to lease us all their rooms," the tall one spoke up. "And happy to do so too, with this village so far from the usual traveller's highways or near any sights of great importance. Having seen no business for weeks, Mr. Paul practically gave us the keys before we could even drop the first coin in his palm."

"And you are, sir…?" Jon prompted, turning his head to look at the free-spoken man.

Patrick, seizing the opportunity, introduced him. "His name is Hayden, my lord." The man made another perfunctory bow at Jon. "My…" The man made discreet scribbling motions with one hand at Patrick "...secretary." Patrick waved the two remaining men forward. "Hartman, my, ah, valet." Another bow. "And this young lad here is my… he is... " Patrick seemed at a loss as to what the call the small, earnest-looking young man. "Alexander. _Footman_ ," Hartman hissed from behind him. "Yes, yes. Footman. Ale—no, no one has called him that since he was in leading strings. You can call him Kitty."

Jon heard Kitty surreptitiously whisper, "A footman! That's new," before Hartman glared once again for him to be quiet.

"Is everything to your satisfaction?" Jon asked solicitously. Patrick nodded. "This should be alright."

"Let me still know what I could do to ease your stay," Jon offered, though it looked as if Patrick had brought every comfort between Blackburg and London. But Jon was raised to be as helpful as he could and he'd loathe for anyone, especially his husband, to be made to feel unwelcome. "A cook? Maids? Village lads to help with your horses or your carriage?"

"The inn's staff is enough. We have enough rooms here for me and my men, and we will only keep the beddings and furniture that can fit," Patrick assured. "Those not in use will be kept in covered wagons until such a time that they are needed. Perhaps the wagons can be kept at Hawke House? With your permission of course," Patrick added as an afterthought. "If not, then they can be sent back to London."

"No, of course," Jon agreed. "I'll have Keith help as to where they should go." Patrick nodded, satisfied and was already on his way to leave when Jon asked, "Would you now be ready?"

"Ready for what?" Patrick stopped, mid-turn, and asked blankly.

"The, ah, wedding breakfast," Jon said, hesitant. "My mother and father are waiting at Gilbert Hall."

Patrick stood blinking for a few seconds before Hartman stepped forward and answered for him. "Yes, my lord, of course. Mr. Kane will be ready. If you'll give us a moment, Lord Toews." Hartman quickly guided Patrick by the elbow, out of Jon's hearing. "Why didn't you tell me that you'll be meeting the duke and duchess this morning? None of your clothes are unpacked!" he hissed.

"I didn't know that there was a wedding breakfast!" Patrick denied hotly. "He didn't say anything last night!"

"You are _married_! Of course, there will be a wedding breakfast!" Hartman pinched his nose with a thumb and forefinger. He gestured with his arm at Kitty, who was petting a giant brown mastiff. Hayden had gone back to fussing about their things in the carriages.

"What is it Hartzy!" Kitty ran towards them, the dog loping behind him. Patrick eyed the dog, whose tongue was lolling out and nosing his hand for scratches. "Whose beast is that?"

"She's _not_ a beast, don't be rude. Her name is Juliette, she belongs to Lord Toews, and she's the gentlest lady." Kitty rubbed her ears again and the dog gave a pleased whuff. Hartman, fondly thinking of his own hound that he left at home, gave Juliette a vigorous scratch on her jowls. After having had enough, she padded around Kitty and Hartman to sniff at Patrick, who was still looking at Juliette suspiciously. She nosed Patrick's knees before placing a paw expectantly at his thigh. Hartman and Kitty cooed. "Give her a scratch Patty!" Kitty encouraged.

Patrick gave Kitty a wilting look before begrudgingly giving Juliette a light scratch behind one flopping ear. Juliette whuffed and licked Patrick's hand, as if in thanks, and trotted away to bark at the marquess.

Patrick wiped his hand down the side of his sleeve and Hartman shook his head. "Your lack of affection towards dogs never ceases to amuse me."

"I just don't coo at every one that crosses my path as you and Kitty do," Patrick shrugged. "Now where's my coat? Lord Toews is waiting. Kitty!"

"He wouldn't be waiting if you told us beforehand!" Kitty sing-songed at him, carrying a coat that was still in its box. Hartman was already busily fixing at Patrick's shirt and waistcoat while Kitty cut the twine that held the box together.

The marquess and Seabrook's horses snickered impatiently in the distance.

"No time to dress me Hartzy. Give me the coat," Patrick demanded after the box was open, hand imperiously extended. Hartman opened his mouth to say something but Patrick was already stalking off to Jon's direction. The marquess helped him up against his horse and then shortly went and smoothly straddled his own saddle. With a click of his tongue and a tug of his reins, he turned his horse down the road and rode off in a quick trot, Patrick beside him, Seabrook following at the rear, and Juliette running alongside them.

Hartman and Kitty watched them ride off. Hayden, done with making sure that their things were sent to their right rooms, ambled over. "Have either of you seen my new coat?"

"What coat?" Kitty looked at him, puzzled.

"The one that I had the tailor send down before we left London. It might have been lost with some of Patrick's clothes, with all the excitement from yesterday—"

Kitty and Hartman groaned.

"What!" Hayden looked between the two of them, alarmed.

"If Patrick appears in the duke's company looking like an urchin, it'll be your fault."

* * *

**Riots abound in London after Sir Francis Burdett is imprisoned for the charge of Libel against the House of Commons. Our esteemed Lord Bowman, seen with his new Protégé, Lord Colliton, has played for silence and refuses to let his Thoughts be known about the Topic…**

**(Excerpt from _The Times_ )**

* * *

The coat was too big on Patrick. The breadth of the shoulders was too broad and the hem of the sleeves slipped past his knuckles. The cut of the coat made him look too young, like a child dressed up in his father's clothes.

The duchess was kind enough to not call this to attention but Patrick saw the alarm in her and the duke's faces. There was a brief silence where both looked at their son before the duchess gave a flustered, "Forgive me, my dear, I didn't know that you were so young."

The marquess said something low in French which his mother responded to apologetically. The duke coughed beside them and nodded to Patrick, who bowed back reflexively, if a little bit awkwardly, years of manners drilled into him now rushing to the fore. "Your Grace," Patrick murmured.

"Charmed, charmed," the duke rumbled. "Please, my child. We don't stand in ceremony here, this isn't the King's drawing room." He gestured to one of the plush velvet settees that formed a semi-circle in the middle of the room. Patrick sat down gingerly, the marquess following beside him. The duchess sat across them and beside her husband. "We'd like to apologize, we've kept the breakfast within the family. For now." The duchess looked reproachfully at her son. "Everything was very… _sudden_."

"It was," Patrick nodded, before falling silent and awkwardly fiddling with his wedding ring.

"Well," the marquess broke the silence, speaking at the same time as his mother who said, "I've asked for a room to be readied for you here, my child. Jonathan keeps a cottage nearer the stables but we'd rather have you here in comfort."

"Thank you but I've men with me, your grace." Patrick looked at the marquess beside him for help. "We don't want to inconvenience your household and the inn will cater to our needs without troubling you and the duke."

"No trouble at all." The duchess waved her hand, negating Patrick's protests. "We will find rooms for your men as well."

Lord Toews admonished his mother with a soft, "Maman, Patrick is staying at the inn for now, and he's suitably housed." Patrick looked at him gratefully.

The duchess looked unconvinced. "And you? Will you join Patrick at the inn as well?"

Jon remembered Patrick the night before, and he knew what was now subtly expected of them. His parents expected that they be housed together, as they knew nothing of the circumstances that brought Jon and Patrick into marriage.

They were saved from further awkwardness with Seabrook entering, trailed by a maid, to announce that the food was served.

* * *

The breakfast was simple but hearty, and still steaming from the kitchens—there were soft rolls, buttered toast, eggs, ham, and bacon. On the sideboard were covered tureens of beef tongue and fish. Tea and chocolate were poured in dainty cups, and on one end of the table, a single-tiered wedding cake frosted in white sugar sat in its place of honor on a silver tray.

The duke and the duchess were warm people, who showered Patrick questions about his current comfort as well as questions about him and his family. "It's a pity about this blasted war—" the duke shook his head, "—and this blockade. Your family should've been here with us."

Patrick made overt noises of agreement to the duke but secretly thanked his fortune that the war had caused travel to move at a slow trickle, due to the dangers of being caught between the cannons of the French Empire and the Coalition. Very little travel meant very few letters, and very few letters meant news came few and far between. Only a select few knew why he was in England, and he intended to keep it that way.

The duchess moved the conversation back to domestic questions posed by the sudden wedding. She spent the rest of the breakfast still ruminating on plans for Patrick and the marquess' living arrangements.

"Perhaps, my dear, your men can live in Jon's cottage while the two of you stay here? Or maybe you'd like the privacy of Jon's cottage, and your men can stay here…"

"Maman," Lord Toews sighed once again at his mother. "It's been decided, it'll be the inn for now."

"And your wedding night?" the duchess pressed. "Surely, you and your husband wouldn't want that to be in the inn."

The duke laid his hand over his wife's. "Enough. Let them talk of such things between themselves, my love. Perhaps they'll decide to buy property in London. They're young and would probably like a livelier company than us or the quiet evenings in the country."

The duchess looked abashed. "Of course, of course," she relented and dropped the subject, though she murmured something in French in an undertone to Jon that sounded like, _we're not done having this conversation_. Jon looked very put-upon but resigned.

With the courses cleared, Seabrook signaled for the maid to cut the cake. She cut it into small slices, served in delicate dessert plates. Tradition dictated that a small portion be set aside for the unwed family members and villagers, to be sent wrapped in paper and placed in miniature boxes for good luck.

Patrick ate his slice half-heartedly, tasting nothing of the thick cake full of nuts and dried fruit. If he had been married at home, his sisters would have placed folded napkins with small slivers of the cake under their pillows so they could dream of their future husbands. An ocean, a war, and the shadow of the hangman's noose made that impossible now.

* * *

**Strikes action to raise wages in Manchester. Across other parts of England, Men drift with their Families, unemployed, their Futures uncertain. The gregarious Mr. Carcillo, known to be an outspoken proponent of Worker's Rights, has made scathing Speeches against the Landlords, declaring that there should be opportunities made for the Workers…**

**(Excerpt from _The Morning Chronicle_ )**

* * *

After the day of the breakfast, and with the marquess not having decided as to what they would do or where they would live, Patrick resigned himself that he and his men might be settling in Blackburg for an undetermined amount of time.

The inn, Four Feathers _,_ was a quaint brick-and-stone house with a steep, pitched roof and thick ivy trailing on the walls. With Blackburg being out of the way of the usual carriage traffic, it was a small and quiet establishment with very little to no patrons. It had two floors and a dining room with a roaring fireplace that also served as the parlor during the morning and a tavern in the evenings. It had four rooms in its upper floors, all adjacent to each other, which suited Patrick and his men just fine. The inn was kept by an affable bearded man with a curiously shaved head. Seabrook had introduced him on Patrick's first night at Blackburg as Paul.

"Has Lord Toews called upon you yet?" Hartman asked. It was their second day in Blackburg and the marquess had not sent word that he would pay a visit to Patrick.

"Nnn," Patrick spoke through a mouthful of feather. He had a regretful habit of chewing on the tips of his quills, which irked Hayden greatly.

"Stop chewing on them!" Hayden plucked the pen from Patrick's mouth.

"Pffbttttttt— _no_ give that back, I was writing!"

"You were ruining it with your teeth!"

Kitty was occupied with going through Patrick's hat boxes. "I don't understand why we must carry so many of these when you only have one head."

"A lot of unfortunate hair covers that one head, and _must_ be hidden, for everyone's sake." Hayden eyed Patrick critically. "Or should I say _less_ hair."

Patrick bristled. "I have a beautiful, thick head of hair."

"Also shorn terribly," Hayden continued as if Patrick had never spoken. "Maybe you could bring powdered wigs back in fashion."

"Maybe I could!" Patrick swiped the quill back from Hayden's hands, tapping it on his chin thoughtfully. "Remember when I wore that marvelous hat with the stuffed bird on the brim? It did catch on in Venice."

Hartman, sitting in a corner and sorting through Patrick's small linens, remembered, much to his great pain. Patrick wore a bright red velvet fopper hat with a stuffed bird precariously perched on the brim. The Venetians, even with the costumed excesses of Carnevale, thought the sight quite strange.

"Is that a... _bird_ on your hat, Signor Kane?" the doge's son had asked in the middle of their dinner at the Palazzo Ducale.

"It's a _parrot_ ," Patrick said proudly, "a plumed bird from the Indies, known for mimicking voices. Pirates in the South Seas kept them as companions."

Everyone in the table had _ooh_ -ed. A few ladies even clapped their hands. Hartman had sat quietly in his seat, stabbing his brasato all'Amarone, and daydreamed of burning it.

"No!" Hartman said vehemently, rolling one of Patrick's stockings with great viciousness. "No hats. And forget anything that Hayden said about wigs. You'll probably end up making this poor corner of England start wearing some side-shorn long-backed horror."

Whatever Patrick was about to say to heatedly refute Hartman was cut off when Paul, the innkeeper, excused himself to announce that the marquess' men had arrived to help the lordship's husband move from the inn to Gilbert Hall.

"On whose word?" Patrick demanded while he was coming down from the stairs. He thought that they'd come to an understanding that he would stay at the inn with his men.

"Mine." Lord Toews appeared at the inn's doorway. He'd dressed down to a more utilitarian costume for the day's work—cotton shirt, buttons partly undone for some comfort in the day's heat, thick cotton breeches, plain hose, and leather shoes. A trickle of sweat ran from the slope of the marquess's neck down to the dip of his collarbone, disappearing down the collar of his shirt. Patrick, fashionably pale, and who reddened and freckled under the slightest sun, was transfixed at that swathe of honey-warm skin. "Good day, husband."

Kitty, who'd followed him down, coughed discreetly beside him. Patrick shook himself and glared at Kitty, cross at being caught staring. "My lord, I thought..."

"It would suit us better if we shared the same room, for appearances' sake," the marquess explained quietly, lowering his voice. "Between us, our men, and Lord Bowman, no one knows. Everyone else thinks this was a love match, borne of a chance meeting in London and a courtship of clandestine exchanges of letters."

Patrick had not asked what the marquess had told his family and had assumed that they knew why their son had married him. He was not the only one with secrets, it seemed. Now he understood the duke and duchess' fluster and their keenness to see him and the marquess settled together. A horrifying thought sneaked in his mind.

"Lord Toews, do… do your mother and father think I'm in the _family way_?" Patrick hissed.

"What? _No!_ " The marquess' face reddened. "I've told them that we've been chaste. Which they believe since I rarely leave Blackburg." His eyes widened comically after realizing what Patrick had just said. "Wait. Can you... does that mean you _can_ …?"

"I don't know," Patrick frowned, that peculiar trait, uncommon but not rare, had never really happened in any branch of the Kanes that he knew of. "I think it doesn't run in our family."

"Oh," the marquess said. Patrick thought that the marquess looked a little bit crestfallen, but only for a moment. "Well, no matter. But for now, we have to keep up appearances until we come up with a better plan."

"I'm loathe to leave my men or house them anywhere not with me," Patrick insisted. They were used to having each other near, a small comfort in the years of their exile from home.

"Gilbert Hall is a short ride away from the inn."

"No," Patrick refused flatly.

"They can stay in my cottage. It's only a few minutes from Gilbert Hall by foot..." the marquess reasoned.

"No." Patrick didn't even let the marquess finish.

The marquess glared. Patrick held his ground. He wanted his men close.

Lord Toews scowled, hands on his hips. Something thumped upstairs, probably one of the inn's maids cleaning the chamber pots. He craned his head to look and hummed thoughtfully.

Leaving Patrick, he went up to where the rooms were. Patrick followed him closely, curious.

He went past each room, peeking through the open doors until he finally reached the end of the hall where Patrick had his. He looked quizzically at the dark silk sheets, the velvet porter's chair, and the strangely patterned thick rugs scattered around. Chests were neatly pushed back against the wall, no doubt full of clothes, small trinkets and gewgaws. A dog-eared novel by Samuel Richardson was on a bedside table, a page marked by a frayed blue ribbon. Jon sat down on the bed, feeling the give of it under his weight.

"Do your windows face east?" the marquess asked, glancing towards the window where the shutters were thrown open to let in the morning light.

Patrick answered him, perplexed. "No, why?"

"Good, I'm not my best during the morning." He patted the bed one more time, stood up and left, leaving a confused Patrick staring after him.

* * *

**Rumors say that France's Relations with Russia has started to unravel. This is made even more suspicious with the Presence of General-feldmarshal Alexander Mikhailovich Ovechkin in London. General Ovechkin is seen to have been going around St James's, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, Överste Bäckström. Sources have said that General Ovechkin denies This, and is only here for the Pleasures of Vauxhall and Covent Garden...**

**(Excerpt from the _Morning Post_ )**

* * *

It all became evident to Patrick the next day when he was faced with Lord Toews standing in the middle of the inn's parlor with a trunk at his feet. The taciturn Seabrook was carrying another behind him, nodding his head at Patrick in greeting.

"Good morning, husband," the marquess chirped obnoxiously, hefting the trunk up to his shoulder, the sinews of his forearms flexing distractingly from where he had rolled up his shirt sleeves.

"My lord?" Patrick stared. Paul had knocked on his door discreetly, saying that the marquess was downstairs. He was expecting Jon to once again make his case for Patrick to move to Gilbert Hall, but the last thing that he expected was the marquess,a few trunks in tow, moving into his room.

Patrick followed them upstairs, where the marquess directed Seabrook in placing his trunks flush to the wall opposite the bed. When everything was to the marquess' satisfaction, Seabrook took his leave, nodding his head again in deference to Patrick.

The marquess stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, a smirk on his face. " _Mahomet called the Hill to come to him,"_ his deep voice carried through the room. Patrick narrowed his eyes. " _And when the Hill stood still, he was never a whit abashed, but said_ -"

" _If the Hill will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill,_ " Patrick finished. The look on the marquess' face made it clear that he had outwitted Patrick. "So you've read the _Essays_ ," Patrick said, unimpressed.

"Of course. I might live at the ends of England but my parents made sure to give me an education befitting my future station." The marquess looked at him cockily. "And here I thought the colonists only read seditious literature and revolutionary pamphlets."

"And I thought the royal houses of Europe only married their sisters or their brothers." Patrick raised an eyebrow. He was not going to give the marquess the satisfaction of thinking that he'd bested him.

"There is not a single drop of royal blood in our family, so rest assured, none of my family have married our siblings."

"Good to know," Patrick retorted. The marquess said nothing, only grinned smugly at him.

* * *

**Mr. George Crabbe has published _The Borough_ , a collection of Poems arranged in a series of 24 Letters that cover the Lives its eponymous Inhabitants. The Honorable Adam Burish, famous Wit and Pundit, has remarked that the Writing was delightful, and is reminiscent of his Correspondences about the Lives of his own Friends...**

**(Excerpt from _The Morning Herald_ )**

* * *

The first few days of living with the marquess—whom he really needed to call something more… _familiar_ , and husbandly, since the marquess had already eased himself into calling him by his name—felt very odd to Patrick. As the only son of his family, he'd grown used to having his own room, and even on his travels, he'd always made sure that he and his men each had their own—or if it couldn't be spared, separate beds.

The room that he was given was of a respectable size for an inn. But Lord Toews, a large man, made the room smaller than it seemed. Patrick could feel him occupying the room, from his shirts haphazardly thrown over the edge of the bed or his breeches slung over an arm of a chair. The first night that they slept in the same bed, Patrick could feel the warmth emanating from the marquess' broad back, his breathing loud as he slept. They'd divided the bed—Patrick would sleep nearest the door and the marquess would sleep nearest the commode.

Patrick also found the marquess' habits strange. Patrick would wake up to randomly seeing him stretching, to which the marquess explained that he was working out the soreness of his muscles. Patrick didn't mind that he did—he knew that the marquess labored the entire day around the estate—but he would've appreciated that he didn't do at odd hours, especially when Patrick was sometimes sleeping. He was always thirsty—there were empty pitchers that littered his side table, which Patrick had to ask one of the inn's maids to take down after Paul had apologetically asked for them.

The strangest of the marquess' habits was his propensity to dispense with his clothes once inside the inn. Spring in the English countryside was temperate, but there were days in which the weather turned and a chill came with the wind. None of it bothered the marquess, whose shirt dripped with sweat before midday and whose buttons were already off even before he'd crossed the lintel over the bedroom door.

The first time that Patrick saw the marquess in only his drawers, he nearly ran his face into the bedpost.

"What on earth," Patrick squawked indignantly to himself. He wasn't an innocent—he'd seen nakedness, male and female. He'd been to the pleasure gardens of the continent. But this was the Marquess of Blackburg-Hawke, and he was just standing _there_ , unabashed, shamelessly exposing himself in his flimsy cotton drawers like an actor from Drury Lane's less-respectable theaters. From the side, Patrick could see the shadow of a strong thigh meeting the curve of a muscular buttock, and the sparse hair on the flat planes of his stomach descending to his nether regions. _Scandalous_ , Patrick felt his cheeks heat up, but then realized the ridiculousness of his thoughts. Lord Toews was now his husband, after all. Is it proper for husbands to be unclothed in each other's presence in the bedroom? Can one even chastise one's husband for being unclothed in the bedroom? Maybe he should write to Mr. Kesler about this.

"Would you like a robe, my lord?" Patrick offered, falling back on propriety and handing the marquess a silk robe that he'd kept draped at the foot of the bed. The marquess turned fully towards him and he could almost see the outline of the marquess' sex, thick and heavy between his legs. Patrick averted his eyes quickly.

"Patrick," Lord Toews looked at him, surprised, but made no move to cover himself. "Would you be joining us with Mr. Hayden?"

"No, I will have to decline," Patrick spoke to the space above his ear, hand still extended with the robe. Jon nodded his thanks and took it, but left the robe untied. "Today is when we agree on the settlements," Jon reminded him.

"I trust Hayden to represent my interests." Patrick, lest the marquess see his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, had busied himself with a pile of Jon's shirts thrown in the corner. He dropped them in the basket for the washerwomen, the marquess' faint smell of sun and sweat wafting from the folds of the shirt. Patrick had noticed that the marquess always smelled of a summer morning in the country—heat, cut grass, and petrichor—and the scent was curiously pleasing. He shrugged. "I don't need to go over the settlements. I know what I'm worth."

Patrick didn't know why but the marquess suddenly grew very still. He finished dressing and with a nod to Patrick, left.

* * *

**Sir Henry Cavendish, notable Philosopher and Scientist, has passed on. A very private Man, he was nonetheless very much admired, and many have come for their Condolences. Surprising among the list of Mourners was Mr. Patrick Kane of New York, who was seen wearing black Gloves and a black Cravat when he visited the Cavendish Family. A Close Source has been said to say that 'their keens Minds were very alike, and they both understood each other's need to be away from the prying Eyes of the Public', a very mysterious Statement, as Mr. Kane has been known to frequent the dazzling light of Society...**

**(Excerpt from _The Sun_ )**

* * *

Jon and Sharp met Patrick's secretary, Hayden, in the duke's study at Gilbert Hall. Jon wanted a meeting place that would be more formal, instead of the kitchen at his cottage or the dining room of the inn.

After some introductions and an offer of tea which Hayden had politely accepted, they sat down and discussed the minutiae of the business of Jon and Patrick's marriage.

"With Mr. Kane comes several hectares of land and a few thousand heads of cattle in the western frontier, properties in New York and New England, income from coal and steel mining, the mills and paper factories, and shares in the railways." Hayden looked at him shrewdly. "And these not including the shipping interests in the South Seas and the Caribbean."

Jon swallowed. That was a significant amount of wealth, more than he'd even heard of in his entire life. He always knew, of course, that Patrick came from an affluent family. But the actual enumeration of Patrick's riches was dizzying and left Jon reeling.

"We'd like to see the actual settlement papers if you please," Sharp spoke up.

Hayden frowned. "Please put your faith in my words, Mr. Sharp, that that is everything. If you're implying that I, or Mr. Kane, would deliberately leave out something in the settlement…"

"No, of course not," Sharp said smoothly. "But I would like everything clear and aboveboard, for my client's interests." He nodded his head towards Jon.

"This entire marriage is already tipped towards your client's interests but, of course." Hayden said, eyebrow arched. Sharp just smiled at him, face guileless.

"I'll bring them tomorrow and go through them with you once again. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave." Hayden bowed curtly and stepped out, closing the door of the study with a pointed click.

"Congratulations, Jonny," Sharp finally said, once Hayden had gone. "How does it feel to breathe the air as a rich man."

"It still feels like the same air that I used to breathe as a poor man," Jon said wryly. His head was still swimming in the figures and property that Hayden had rattled off. "So much wealth." Jon's head spun. He could send David to London after university and give him the life of a gentleman. He could buy a comfortable townhouse for his mother and father in London. He could pay off all of Blackburg's debts, purchase new tools and animals for the farm—but even with all that, he still probably wouldn't even make a dent in Patrick's fortune.

"We need to make sure that everything is accounted for," Sharp interrupted Jon's thoughts. "A clearer, itemized list of each property that you acquire would be helpful."

"Isn't that too much?" Jon grimaced, the demand felt too rapacious, and his insides wilted at Hayden's insinuation that the marriage was entirely tipped towards Jon's favor—and nothing for Patrick. He remembered Patrick's words earlier that morning. _I know what I'm worth_. Jon didn't answer that he also knew and that it was, _I'm worth nothing_.

Seeing his friend brooding, Sharp said kindly, "Don't think too much of what Mr. Hayden said. Once you inherit your title from your father, this marriage brings him into the peerage, as will any children that both of you will have. Let's not even talk about the doors that will open for his family."

"My name," Jon said gloomily, "and nothing else."

"Hawke House is not nothing. Blackburg is not nothing. You went into this marriage head-first Jon, the recriminations are too late now," Sharp reminded him. Even though he heckled Jon on all manner of silly things, his problems with Blackburg and his surprising solution was something that Sharp was loathe to touch on. "There's no love between you and Mr. Kane, so I don't see why we have to step carefully around Mr. Hayden on the real reason why you married him and he married you."

Jon knew Sharp was right. Lord Bowman himself had been very forthcoming on the reasons, during that fateful day, months ago.

* * *

_October 1809, five months ago_

_Summer_

Jon walked out of Wirtz, McDonough & Sons with a heavy heart.

In the stuffy rooms of their Old Bond Street offices in London, he'd come to discuss the dire state of his family's credit. They've been sending letters, once every few months, now turned weekly, which Jon had Seabrook intercept before they were seen by his father or mother. The letters were discreet and politely-worded but held undertones of dire warning. Wirtz, the prosperous banker who handled the family's finances and a long-time friend of the duke, was now forced to take a firm hand on Jon's family's affairs because of the worrying accounts that his clerks had shown him. He'd been a friend of the family for some time, but seeing the debts, he'd penned the final note himself: _See us in London, Jon, or we will be forced to take action._

"You must settle your debts, Lord Toews," McDonough, Wirtz's partner, had intoned, voice dry as sandpaper, his hands clasped before him. "Or give us something considerable as surety," he said, apologetic, but with eyes hard as flint.

Jon knew what he was trying to say and he would not. Blackburg and Hawke House were too precious—the estate was his family's legacy, and it would one day be his own family's legacy, once he'd married and had children of his own.

"I see." Jon gripped his hat. "I will consider it, Mr. McDonough, and let you know," he said, standing up. "Good day, gentlemen."

"Jon," Wirtz spoke, finally, from where he had been sitting quietly beside McDonough. "Have you spoken to your father about this?"

He had not. He'd left Blackburg with a message to his mother and father that he'd left for some gentlemanly diversions in Lord Argyll's estate.

"Yes, of course," Jon nodded, face blank. "He sends his regards, Mr. Wirtz. And to you as well, Mr. McDonough. Thank you, gentlemen, I'll see myself out."

"Well?" Seabrook asked anxiously, from where he was waiting outside.

"They're demanding for the debts to be settled," Jon grimaced. "They will not take any other surety except…"

"Except what?" They were walking down from Old Bond Street to Jermyn Street, avoiding hawkers, fashionable nannies taking their charges out for a stroll, and dandies loitering the arcades.

"Blackburg. Or Hawke House," Jon said, jaw set. Someone greeted him in the street, and Jon gave a terse nod, unseeing, before continuing on his path. "I won't give in, that is my family's legacy, and I will die before I let it fall into Wirtz and McDonough's hands."

Seabrook chewed on his lip thoughtfully. "Sell some of the land, Jon. There are acres around Blackburg that are lying fallow. Even if you sell some, it won't matter, with Blackburg being so large. Call David from university to help in the business of the estate, and," he said sternly. "You must tell your father."

"No, no, and never," Jon refused, face grim. "David will stay in university and father mustn't _ever_ know."

"Jon, you can't keep all these problems to yourself," Seabrook said, his voice edged with frustration at Jon's bullheadedness.

Jon ignored him, mind already thinking on what to do. Wirtz and McDonough had stopped accepting the harvest as a guarantee, burned by the succession of bad farming years that Blackburg had. "You must go to Hawke House and check all the rooms, from the cellar to the attic. See what we can sell to old Handzus—furniture, some of the French paintings from my mother's provenance, books—anything," he instructed. He refused to accept defeat. Something can still be done.

"Maybe it's time to consider Hawke House as a loss," Seabrook said quietly. "Gilbert Hall is respectable, and your mother and father have never complained."

Jon stopped walking to face Seabrook. "If you ever considered yourself my friend, then you will cease such talk immediately."

"Jon, there is no shame in accepting the inevitable," Seabrook argued. "There is no money to be had. Sell Hawke House and parcel off the land on the edges of Blackburg."

"I won't disgrace my family and lose the legacy that we've had for generations," Jon said, stubborn. "No."

Seabrook gave him a pained look before shaking his head in resignation. He was about to say something else when a shout across the street cut him off.

" _Lord Toews!_ " A man in a tricorn hat called his name, huffing as he crossed the street hurriedly to get to Jon. "Milord wants a word with you."

Jon looked curiously at where the man was pointing. A stately carriage was parked near a post, a gloved hand coming out of one of the carriage windows to beckon imperiously at Jon. The man didn't say who called for Jon, but there was no need, the crest painted on the door of the carriage notified everyone who the occupant was.

"What does Lord Bowman want with me?" Jon asked, frowning. Lord Bowman was one of the most important men in London and had held the ear of the King, before his convalescence, and now the Prince. He'd always greeted Jon whenever their paths crossed briefly in London, but further than that, Lord Bowman had never really had any reason to seek him out. Jon's family was old and their pedigree was something to be envied, yes, but they didn't hold any kind of political clout whatsoever in the court that could be useful with power brokers such as Lord Bowman.

"He didn't say, Lord Toews," the man shrugged. "But he asked for you."

"Well, I'll get going then," Seabrook said. "I'll see you back in our lodgings." Jon called him back, and taking Seabrook's hand, dropped a small bag with a few meager coins inside. "See that you get yourself a hot meal and some drink." Seabrook silently tipped his hat at Jon in thanks and went his way.

Jon crossed the street, mindful of the carriages, carts, and people on horseback, and stopped outside of Lord Bowman's window.

"Lord Bowman," Jon greeted him.

"Lord Toews, a pleasure," Lord Bowman spoke from the recesses of his carriage, voice faint. Jon had heard that Lord Bowman had been suffering a creeping illness for some time. But town gossip told that he was on his way to recovery, and had now been lately seen freely going about, instead of being abed in his house outside of London. One of the footmen opened the door for Jon to step inside the carriage.

"I saw you with one of your men in Old Bond Street earlier," Lord Bowman said. "And since I'm on my way to White's, perhaps you'd like to join me for luncheon?"

Jon, divining no reason as to what Lord Bowman could want from him, decided that it would do no harm to humor the older man. Entry into one of the most exclusive clubs in London was something that Jon couldn't afford, and if he got a free meal out of just trading pleasantries , then he would.

The ride to White's was short, and upon arrival, they were ushered to one of the tables in the first-floor parlor. Jon silently thanked his luck that he wore one of his better coats as men in rich brocade and silks sat around them, partaking in the sumptuous food and expensive wines.

After sitting down, gloved servants served them light wine while they waited for their meal.

"How goes your family and Blackburg?" Lord Bowman opened, after taking a sip of his wine.

"They're doing well, thank you for asking." Jon sipped his own wine. He was not an expert at such things but he guessed that it was a rare vintage, cooled in the cellars of White's. The price of one bottle could probably feed an entire farming family in Blackburg for a month, but the men in the room were quaffing it like it was spring water. Jon wondered idly how it felt to be surrounded by that much wealth and to spend it so freely without ever thinking of its cost.

"And yourself?" Lord Bowman turned the conversation to him after hearing Jon mumble through the—mostly imagined—prosperity of Blackburg.

"I am well," Jon said, schooling his smile to be pleasant. He hated talking about himself. "And how goes your own health, my lord?"

Lord Bowman didn't answer. He was now looking at Jon assessingly, hooded eyes suddenly turned cunning. Jon fought the urge to shift nervously in his seat.

"I've heard your name occasionally mentioned at Almack's. Sometimes here, at White's." A servant came and served them cold dishes and platters of cheese. Jon picked at the cuts of meat while Lord Bowman continued to stare at him, his food untouched. "The young lords and ladies talk of you adoringly, but curiously, not by their ambitious mothers." The assessing stare remained. Jon felt like he was horseflesh displayed at Tattersalls, for all of Lord Bowman's scrutiny. "Tell me, Lord Toews, are you married? Or are you promised to someone? I have not heard any news of your marriage or engagement, and that's very surprising, for a young man of your quality."

Jon nearly choked on the slice of cold beef that he'd been chewing. Taking a sip from his wine, he didn't answer that the sheer size of his estate had made even the most ambitious London society mamas shy away from offering their sons or daughters to him. It was publicly known, but not said out loud, that Blackburg was in financial peril. Everyone knew that the amount needed to shore the estate up from dilapidation was near-ruinous, not to mention the cost to keep it running. Any funds invested in bettering Blackburg and Hawke House would only see interest after decades. No family in their right mind would marry their son or daughter to such a penurious prospect. All London knew this and Jon didn't know why Lord Bowman was playing coy by pretending otherwise.

"I am busy with the affairs of the estate." Not a complete lie, like much of the others that he'd said the entire day. Jon _was_ busy trying to keep Blackburg together. "And sadly have no time to dance with young ladies or woo men at dinner tables."

"A pity," Lord Bowman said. His eyes looked on steadily at Jon. He was starting to give off an appearance of a hypnotic serpent, eyes flat and unblinking.

Jon suddenly realized that Lord Bowman might have a completely different intention other than just having a light meal between two nodding acquaintances.

"Forgive me if this is being too forward Lord Bowman, but what is the real reason as to why you called out to me," Jon asked, putting his knife and fork down. "Neither my family nor I have any political leverage to be of any importance to you. So I assume it must be something else."

Lord Bowman laughed, surprising both Jon and some men at the tables beside them. "That _is_ too forward, but I applaud you for catching on earlier than I hoped." He languidly raised a finger, calling for more wine. "I saw you walking out of Wirtz, McDonough & Sons earlier, looking defeated. That, coupled by the fact that Blackburg has been tottering at the edge of bankruptcy for years, has made me realize that it is most likely that the esteemed gentlemen of 6 Old Bond Street have decided to no longer extend any kind of financial help to you and your family. Am I right?"

Jon was now suddenly wary. Lord Bowman did not rise to power in the Hanoverian court and in Parliament by being anyone's fool. He was planning something, and Jon knew that whatever it was, he would soon to be in the middle of it.

"I only came to discuss some trivial things." Jon wiped his mouth with a napkin. He suddenly wished that he was somewhere else. Eating a poor man's fare with Seabrook at any one of London's taverns or chophouses, instead of soon being unwittingly roped into Lord Bowman's machinations would be preferable.

"Did you?" Lord Bowman smiled. "Well so did I, actually. I've come to talk to you of trivial things too."

Jon stared at him, now at a loss at how cryptic Lord Bowman was becoming. "What kind of trivial things?" he repeated.

"I have a ward. The most delightful young man." Lord Bowman looked fond, his previously impersonal face now transforming to something that an observer would call paternal. "He just came back from his travels and is now visiting some friends."

Jon knew of who Lord Bowman was speaking of. Patrick Kane. A wealthy man who'd come suddenly to London from America on an extended visit, he'd been under Lord Bowman's protection and once even stayed under his roof when he first came to England. He was always seen at the most fashionable parties or rattling around St. James Street in a strange, odd-colored carriage with his friends or his men.

"He's around the same age as you," Lord Bowman volunteered. "Fine-formed and fair of face, I've often heard people say, lively, of excellent health," he continued. "Possessing of a keen mind. Patrick's not one of those youths that look like delicate Limoges milkmaids that you see around London these days—all pretty but vacant."

"I... see," Jon said, for lack of a better of response and baffled that this was the turn that the conversation was taking.

"He's also dowered with nearly a million pounds," Lord Bowman said, nonchalant. They'd moved on to port, and Lord Bowman stared at Jon while swirling the dark red liquid in his glass.

Jon could feel his mouth opening slightly. He couldn't have heard that right. No one could possibly have that much wealth and not be the King of England. Even the _Prince_ didn't have that much money on his person.

"He's of marriageable age, of course, but I've been careful to make sure that he is only introduced to those that would be worthy of him." To this, he pointedly looked at Jon. "Gentlemen who won't unscrupulously take advantage of his age and of his wealth. Respectable men, with respectable names."

"That's very… _outstanding_ of you." Jon still didn't know how he should respond. Did Lord Bowman want to be congratulated for his exemplary behavior towards his ward?

"A million pounds. Imagine if you had that wealth. The debts that you could pay. The expenses that you could shoulder without worry," Lord Bowman mused to himself. "The banks and creditors that would stop hounding your family."

"I could imagine." A few tables over, Jon noticed a group of raucous men arriving, their fashionably-cut coats in hues of tangerine, apricot and orange clashing with the parlor's decor of muted browns and reds. One of the men, younger than the others and handsome and pink-cheeked, waved at Jon shyly, prompting his companions to tease him. The red-haired leader of the group called everyone to be silent, while he perused the club's selection of wines. Jon vaguely remembered him from some party that he'd attended with his mother, a few seasons back. "But as I do not have that much wealth, I could only do that. Imagine."

"But if you were to marry someone with a wealth such as that..." Lord Bowman glanced at him sideways, eyes crafty. A server was about to clear their table, but Lord Bowman waved him away. Their luncheon was still not at an end. "Then you wouldn't have to imagine, would you?"

* * *

_March 1810, England, present day_

_Spring_

"They want to see the settlement papers," Hayden said, irked. He sat down across the armchair from Patrick, accepting a cup of tea from Kitty gruffly. Patrick, Hartman, and Kitty were all gathered in the inn's parlor, whiling the hours away until supper.

"Then let them see the papers." Patrick looked up from where he was engrossed in a new volume of Bonnycastle's textbooks, face lit up from the glow of the fireside. The evening came earlier in the country and the fire was already lit, the wood crackling. Patrick was poring over _A Treatise on Plane and Spherical Trigonometry_ , and he had a large notebook beside him, where he worked on the practical portions of the textbook. "We're not cheating them out of anything."

"I know that, and _you_ know that, but it grates on my nerves how… how… _grasping_ they are," Hayden said, miffed. "Your marriage transfers your entire dower wealth over to him. But they still _dare_ ask for proof when all they can offer is a crumbling ruin, acres of untenable farmland, and exile in this godforsaken corner of the British Isles." Hayden slammed the cup of tea that Kitty had poured him down on its saucer in annoyance, the angry clink loud in the small room. Kitty fiddled nervously and called out his name in warning. Hayden ignored him.

"Hayden," Patrick warned. "Be mindful that you are talking about the man that is now _my_ husband."

Hayden looked abashed. "Of course, Patrick, but—"

Patrick had closed the volume now and was looking straight at Hayden. "Lord Jonathan Toews is heir to one of the oldest dukedoms in England. His family is older than the German nobles that currently sit on its throne. He is also, among the many men in England, one of the few above reproach. If I am finally called for my crime," Patrick levelled a stare at Hayden, "his spotless reputation and his family's good name could very well help save me." He looked down at his hand, where the signet ring shone dully on his finger. "I came into this willingly Hayden, and if the price that the marquess asks is my fortune, then so be it."

Hartman, who'd been quietly watching the exchange, spoke up from where he was sitting silently in the corner, inspecting the buttons that the inn's maid had sewn on one of Patrick's shirts.

"There is no crime, Patrick, and even if you insist there was, you're innocent." His tone brooked no argument. It was true. There really wasn't and Patrick _knew_ that he was innocent. In hindsight, he could've stayed home and defended himself. But fear and worst of all, guilt, made him flee all the same.

Hartman stood up and folded Patrick's shirt, coming over to pat a still-stewing Hayden on the back. "Let's all put faith in Patrick. Loathe as I am to admit this, but he's right. And as for you," he said, pointing towards Patrick. "None of this talk of handing everything over to the marquess. Where do you think we'll find the coin to pay for your ridiculous extravagances." Patrick made an indignant noise, and the strained atmosphere in the room was soon broken.

"A carriage is not a ridiculous extravagance!" he exclaimed hotly, shaken from his tense mood to once again defend his purchase.

"Covered in gilt and with carriage wheels bigger than that of a grown child? Yes, yes it is," Hartman rebutted.

"I'm penning you a hefty allowance in that settlement," Hayden announced, shaking off his frustration by being as obnoxious in the best way that he knew possible—legally. "Hartman's right, and of course I'd have to take into account my own spending in factoring your allowance—my books, paper, and pens—and also Hartman's expenses and Kitty's…"

"How good of you, to think generously of everyone's welfare," Hartman said flatly.

"Yes, that would be very nice," Kitty spoke up, now that he was sure that everyone's moods had lifted. "Can I be included for some coin to spend for myself, Patty?"

"Of course you can! It's Patrick's money," Hayden reached over to pinch his cheek, which Kitty swatted away in mock-annoyance.

"I'm glad that at least one person in this room has the good manners to ask _me_ for some of _my_ money, instead of going ahead and apportioning it for themselves," Patrick said sulkily.

"Someone has to, there's too much of it," Hayden retorted, smug.

* * *

**B**

**Have you seen our good friend Kane? I haven't seen Him in the Clubs and Halls that he'd normally frequent. I've also stopped seeing his gigantic eyesore of a Carriage rattling around in St James Street. I'll call on him tomorrow and see how He is.**

**Also, dreadful News. Father wants to buy me a Commission in the Army, something that I'd vehemently opposed. I'd rather not be sent to fight in some French Province wearing an unflattering red Uniform, thank you very much.**

**A**

* * *

The second meeting was held at the inn, with only Sharp and Hayden in attendance. Patrick was with the duchess for tea and Jon had begged off with some excuse, their previous conversation having left him with a distaste for the entire post-marriage negotiations.

"Mr. Kane's property, with his marriage, will now be Lord Toews' property. However, all large sums that need to be spent or investments that will be made will have Mr. Kane's knowledge," Hayden started. Sharp nodded for him to continue. "Portions will also be allotted to their children, should they beget or choose to foster them in the future. Should they not, a portion of the property will return, at Mr. Kane's request, to his family, to be divided among his sisters. Mr. Kane will also receive an allowance from Lord Toews, enough for him to live in a style that he is accustomed to."

Hayden went through the property in detail, Sharp agreeing with him or asking a few questions now and then.

The only thing that Sharp added that gave Hayden pause was "Mr. Kane will use the Blackburg-Hawke name on the pleasure of Lord Toews."

Hayden stopped rustling through the settlement papers. "I beg your pardon?"

"We don't have either of our clients here so let's dispense with the soft words. If your client would watch his wealth so, then my client would watch his and his family's name with equal regard," Sharp continued. "I know the real reasons for Mr. Kane's sudden and curiously extended stay in Europe and here in England."

Hayden's hand had unconsciously gripped the sheaf of documents. He placed them on the table and methodically flattened them, straightening the creases.

"Reasons that are very, very grave."

Hayden stopped and calmly placed them back inside the thin satchel in which he had brought them. "Can I be frank?"

Sharp gestured graciously. "Please."

"Lord Toews has more need for Patrick than Patrick has a need for him." Hayden looked at Sharp square in the eye, unflinching. "Lord Toews recognizes this. Perhaps you should too."

Sharp was a handsome man, and everyone called him so. He was seldom serious and always had about him an air of laughter and gallant mischief. No one would call him that now.

"But I think imprisonment or the hangman's noose would give even the most desperate man pause."

"Then lucky for us," Hayden pronounced softly. "That Lord Toews is more desperate than that."

* * *

_March 1810, the day of the wedding_

_Spring_

Sharp, after years of being inured to Jon's bursts of melodrama (which Jon denied, but he, Seabrook, and Keith knew to be a lie) was not surprised that Jon had asked that they all urgently meet in his cottage in the early morning, one cloudy spring day.

"All right, out with it," Sharp announced while stepping over the cottage's threshold, startling a half-asleep Keith who was seated in one of the chairs, a thick knitted throw wrapped around him. "I had to forsake my bed and my wife's arms for you, Jon, so by God, this better be—"

"I've met someone, and I'm to marry," Jon said, face wooden.

"— _what_ ," Sharp froze in the middle of removing his coat.

"More importantly, _who_ ," Seabrook said from where he was serving tea to everyone. He nudged one towards Keith who gratefully curled his hands around the steaming cup.

"Yes, who?" Sharp looked baffled. "Is it the one from your years in university, or that other one that kept giving you coy glances at Chevalier Giroux's soirée?"

Jon looked confused for a moment. Sharp sighed, "Nevermind."

"I'm to be wed to Mr. Kane tonight. Seabrook, you'll need to ask the old parish priest for a favor. It _has_ to happen tonight, quickly and secretly." Jon looked down at his cup, trying to avoid everyone's eyes.

All three looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

"Mr. Kane? _Patrick Kane_?"

" _Tonight_?"

"What will you _wear_?" the last was Keith, looking at Jon's frayed linen shirt and drab breeches.

"When did this _happen_?" Sharp had to sit down, lest he be unmanly and faint in Jon's cottage. Jon had never overtly shown interest in any of the various, and many, glances that were thrown his way during dinner parties or when he traveled to London for business. The duchess despaired over this and had repeatedly asked Jon to put himself forward, but Jon, mind occupied with Blackburg's problems, had always come off as either standoffish, disinterested, or cold. Not that it deterred all the young lords and ladies of London, rather, it enhanced Jon's mystery, much to his, Seabrook, and Keith's chagrin.

"We've met and have written letters to each other for months. After deciding that our love for each other can no longer be contained—" Jon recited, voice emotionless, as if recalling something from rote.

Seabrook squinted at him suspiciously. "What's his middle name," he asked Jon, stopping him from his speech with a raised teaspoon.

"Uh," Jon looked sideways, trying to think. "Andrew?"

Seabrook turned around, took a newspaper folded in quarters on the table and spread it using both his hands, finger pointing at the small print in the society column. "It's _Timothy_."

Realization dawned on everyone's faces, voiced by Keith, "You're _lying_!"

Jon threw up his hands, caught. "Yes! Yes, I am!" He looked desperately at all three. "But I _will_ marry Mr. Kane and it still needs to happen tonight!"

"But why Patrick Kane, of all people?" Sharp was kept abreast of all society rumors by his friend Burish, and he'd heard outlandish stories about the odd and wild Mr. Kane. But then again, "Well, one does not deny that he is fabulously wealthy—if one believes the rumors—which could be a godsend to your problems. But still! You have absolutely _nothing_ in common."

Seabrook folded his arms across his chest, eyeing Jon accusingly. "This is for Blackburg, isn't it?"

Jon looked miserable. "I've received a letter from the bailiff of Marshalsea." He swallowed down a gulp of tea before looking at them, steady in his resolve. "They mean to come in ten days to arrest me and throw me in prison if I don't sign the promissory notes of payment. If it were just me, I would go, but they asked for my father too."

"But everything is now under your name," Keith pointed out, now fully awake. "You've made sure of that." He directed a questioning look at Sharp, who was frowning.

"Some of the older debts are still under the duke's name," Sharp confirmed. "But I thought those were paid?"

Jon looked wretched. "No, I had to sign some of the payments away to send David to school. I thought the harvest could cover it that year, but..." he sighed. "It was a poor year, and nothing came of it."

"But that still doesn't answer how you find yourself marrying Patrick Kane _tonight_." Sharp was still dumbfounded. How on earth did Jon singlehandedly catch the wealthiest prize outside of the Royal Family, was a question that boggled Sharp's mind. "And please stop with all that earlier absurdity, because we don't believe a single word of that fable that you've concocted."

Jon was also still dazed at how it had come to this. _Marriage._ During that fateful luncheon months ago, Lord Bowman had stated, matter-of-fact, that he was keen on getting Patrick married to a respectable name. Jon's respectable name.

"But _why_?" Jon remained confused. Perhaps he'd taken another fall from his horse and this was nothing but a strange fever dream, and he'd wake up in his cottage with Seabrook glaring down at him.

"Your family could be traced, in an unbroken line, back to William the Conqueror. You don't gamble, drink, or have any other odious vices. You're also as poor as a church mouse and have one foot in the debtor's prison, which _also_ preys precisely to my requirements," Lord Bowman said, ticking the reasons off with his fingers.

Jon scowled. Lord Bowman didn't have to be _that_ forthright.

"And lastly, my ward left America in the wake of a murder and you're the only man that I've observed that could both have the name to protect him and the maturity of mind to ignore his past."

Jon thought that Lord Bowman had given him his fill of things that would shock him in the past hour, but apparently not. " _Murder?_ "

"Patrick didn't murder anyone," Lord Bowman said, waving his hand as if dispelling the actual words in the air. "It's an unfortunate affair. A duel gone wrong—one of Patrick's admirers took a fatal shot from his friend's pistol and Patrick was a witness to it. A simple matter, really, but unfortunately for Patrick, both men's families were on equal footing as his own, and blamed him as the cause of their son' deaths. Patrick fled America to escape their wrath."

Jon listened, face inscrutable. "Is this the real reason why you're so keen to foist your ward on me? To provide protection to a wanted man?"

"I'm not _foisting_ ,'" Lord Bowman rolled the word around his mouth in distaste. "And Patrick is innocent, you may take my word for it. I've chosen you because you're the best candidate among all the gentlemen in England for Patrick."

Jon shook his head. "I don't think I am."

Lord Bowman huffed and was now moving to stand up, a signal that their luncheon had finally come to an end. Jon knew that he was also being dismissed, now that Lord Bowman had said everything that he wanted to say.

"I know you are," he said, reaching out to shake Jon's hand. "And when you realize it as well, send me word."

Jon had left White's and written off the meeting as nothing but the strange fancy of a powerful and bored man. However, months later, after seeing the threatening letters from the bailiff of Marshalsea—one of the most notorious of England's debtor's prisons—Jon had steeled his resolve and sent a message to Lord Bowman: _Bring Mr. Kane to me._

* * *

_March 1810, England, present day_

_Spring_

"I know how good Mr. Kane's wealth would be for Jon. But Jon has been my friend longer than he has been my client and I will do anything to protect him," Sharp said without blinking, all pleasantries now gone.

"And I will say as much—I've grown up with Patrick. It will be no hardship for me to see this marriage dissolved. I have Lord Bowman's ear, too." Hayden was also not giving an inch. "There are other needy dukes, viscounts, or barons that Patrick could shower his wealth on, who don't have the counsel of meddlesome friends."

Hayden glared at Sharp. The room was quiet, the motes dancing in the mid-morning light from the open windows, the sharp smell of cut wet grass wafting in. He could hear the thump of trunks being dragged and opened upstairs, Hartman and Kitty's voices faint.

Sharp suddenly struck his hand flat on the table, making the potted flowers and candlesticks rattle, and laughed uproariously. "Good, we understand each other then." He extended his hand to Hayden, who did not quite know what to make of Sharp's sudden turn. "Come on now," Sharp waggled his fingers. Hayden reached out and shook his hand wanly. "Good to know that I'm not dealing with some milksop. There's some fire in you and I like that. You'll be a formidable barrister one day."

Sharp stood up, straightening his coat. "All papers are in order, and everything should be settled." He put on his hat, angling it jauntily on his head. "A pleasure doing business with you and your client Mr. Hayden," he called out from the door before slamming it closed.

Hayden remained in his seat, feeling as if he'd just been made the butt of some mischievous prank. Kitty peered down from the second floor, asking, "Has Mr. Sharp left, Hayden? We've asked the inn's mistress for some scotch collops for luncheon, pity he's now missed it."

"I'll eat his portion," Hayden muttered. "No sense wasting good food." Especially for Lord Toews' odd friends.

* * *

**Conspicuously absent from the circle of young men that visited Lord Argyll's Estate was Lord Toews, who is now widely regarded as an excellent Shot due to his success in last season's Hunt, where he joined and gained the admiration of his Peers. Lord Toews himself has a noteworthy Estate, Blackburg, which has been known for its rich Species of Game Birds, from Grouse to Partridges…**

**(Excerpt from _The Sporting Magazine_ )**

* * *

Jon sat on top of an upturned cart, resting after a morning of laboriously wrangling sheep. One enterprising ram was able to butt his way through a rotting part of the sheep pen and the rest of the flock had followed. Jon and some of the farm hands had chased after the wily creatures, only to stop when the sheep grew tired and meekly followed them back to their pens.

Seabrook and Keith were with him, sharing a goatskin flask of ale between them. Jon had stripped down to his breeches, sopping up the sweat of the morning's exertions with his shirt.

"This sight is wasted on me," Sharp called out from down the road. "Maybe you should bring your husband to these excursions of yours, he'd appreciate the sight more, I'm sure."

Jon ignored him. "How was your morning?"

"Full of handsome young men," Sharp grinned. "Well, that is until now. Since I've just seen all three of your unfortunate faces again."

"You're married, Sharpy, you old reprobate. Stop being such a damned flirt to every pretty thing that moves." Seabrook rolled his eyes heavenward.

"Your poor wife," Keith mourned. "Sweet, sweet Abigail. You've wed a lecher."

"Sweet, sweet Abigail knew this full well and is delighted by my lecherous ways," Sharp said breezily. "To her person. How do you think our marriage is so blissful with a daughter and another one on the way?"

All three men groaned and Jon threw his shirt at Sharp, who caught it easily.

"And the settlement papers?" Jon asked, not to be deterred by Sharp's banter.

"You're now a very rich man, Lord Toews. You hold rights, as part of your husband's dower, to properties in New York and New England. The Kanes have interests in coal, steel, and paper, of which, as Patrick's husband, you are now privy and also have rights to. That also includes whichever income that comes from shipping and the railways."

"Then it's done," Jon blew a relieved breath.

"All that, and nothing for themselves?" Keith asked, suspicious at the thought of so much wealth being handed over meekly.

"Isn't Jon's name and home enough?" Sharp winked at Jon, and threw his shirt back.

* * *

**My darling Petya,**

**I've heard very little from you in these past few weeks, and miss you terribly. There is nothing to write to you about here in Prince Bobrovsky's estate. The countryside is dull, but Mr. Riziy seems to be enjoying himself, so there's that (though he does mind the prince's cannons, poor thing). I'll be back in London soon and will call on you.**

**Your dearest friend,**

**Temya**

* * *

It was late afternoon when Patrick came back and he was laden with baskets of cakes, jugs of savory chutneys, and sweet jam.

"I have been fed enough to last me until winter," Patrick told them in awe. "I've also spoken and smiled to so many well-wishers and villagers that my jaw is sore," he said in a slightly dazed manner, while Hartman and Kitty were going through the packages wrapped in cheesecloth. "Patty, I think this cake has _pineapples_!" Kitty prodded the cloth on one of the wrapped packages, fascinated.

"Pineapples? In this remote corner of England?" Hartman peered closer.

"I thought they were poor," Hayden grouched, looking over Hartman's shoulder.

"Lord Toews keeps a hothouse near his cottage. The duchess showed it to me earlier." Patrick handed a pound cake to one of the maids that Hartman had waved over. "He has an interest in fruits and herbs, you see, and grows them for his own leisure. And they are _not_ poor Hayden, don't be boorish. They are _struggling_."

" _Poor_ ," Hayden sniffed. "And demanding to boot."

"How was your talk with the delightful Mr. Sharp?" Patrick asked.

"Very delightful," Hartman agreed, carefully placing jars of chutney in one of the maid's waiting hands.

Kitty nodded enthusiastically, while dusting cake crumbs from his hands. "Very very delightful."

"He is _married_. Don't stuff your heads with silly ideas." Hayden, who was chewing energetically on a slice of pineapple cake, pointed at them with his fork. Hartman and Kitty ignored him.

"Well?" Patrick pressed.

"They've agreed to the settlement. Your marriage now makes you Lord Patrick, husband to Jonathan, Lord Toews, Marquess. And you will be Lord Patrick, husband to Jonathan, Duke of Blackburg-Hawke, once he inherits his father's title. Your children will be born into the peerage, and the prestige and protection of House Blackburg-Hawke will extend to you, your children, their heirs, and your family."

"And?" Patrick once again prompted.

Hayden stopped chewing to scoff, "What else is there? He doesn't have anything to offer other than that." He mashed his fork moodily into the cake before suddenly perking up. "Unless you want to divorce him, in which case—"

"There will be no divorce," Patrick said, voice quiet but sure. "Lord Bowman has assured me that the marquess is a good man and the duke and duchess are very kind." He remembered how they had proudly introduced him to everyone in the village. It felt nice, Patrick thought, to have something like family again. "There won't be any reason for me to."


	2. unus finis

* * *

**The Trossachs in Scotland is the scene for Sir Walter Scott's new poem, _The Lady of the Lake_. Critics have been quick to pronounce some parts of the Poem as 'crude' or 'unintelligent' but the Public nevertheless adores it. Wrote one reader, a certain Mr J Hayden from Blackburg, 'the story has transported me from my humdrum little corner of England to the wild beauty of Scotland...**

**(Excerpt from _The Traveller_ )**

* * *

_April 1810, England_

_Spring_

With the marriage settlement arranged, and all financial I's dotted and T's crossed, Patrick accustomed himself to the life of being the marquess' husband. Lord Toews returned to managing the estate while Patrick returned to doing…nothing. With no entertainments available in the country, Patrick and his men spent their days in a state of ennui, writing the occasional letter or reading passages from novels.

"Maybe a trip to London is in order?" Patrick yawned while lounging on a chaise in the inn's parlor, a book open but forgotten on his chest. "I've read all my books. I can recite the first chapter of _Pamela_ in my sleep."

"That book will rot your mind," Hayden clucked, his nose buried in a new novel that he'd purchased before they left for Blackburg. "Nothing but silly ladies fainting at every page."

"You should read Miss Austen," Kitty encouraged, sliding one of his own books towards Patrick. "Her heroines are better written and her novel far superior."

Hayden made a dismissive noise. "Nothing could ever compare to Sir Walter Scott's prose."

His praise for his favorite author was ignored, as Kitty had already gone back to his book and Patrick stared off into the plaster on the ceiling. Patrick idly wondered what the marquess was doing. Probably captaining his men in the daily labors of the farm. With men in short supply due to the ongoing wars in the peninsula, all able hands in the estate and the village helped. March meant plowing, weeding, and sowing the land to be ready for autumn. The marquess supervised or lent a hand in the back-breaking labor needed to ensure a successful harvest. It was no wonder that his form was thick with muscle, Patrick thought. Unlike his peers in London, Jon didn't need to spend afternoons in Gentleman Jackson's salon to trim any excesses. The daily hardship of running an estate as large as Blackburg was his own arduous exercise.

Juliette's barks sounded outside and Patrick tilted his head, listening to the familiar heavy clop of the marquess' horse and the sound of his voice calling for Paul.

"Your lord husband has returned." Kitty prodded Patrick, who was still boneless in the chaise. "Get up and ready yourself to greet him."

"Don't fuss. We share a room, Kitty. He's seen me in my undershirt and robe," Patrick said lethargically.

A fact that, at first, Patrick had to explain to a very puzzled marquess on their first night together. He was watching him from his side of the bed, and asking him if he was not a tad bit too warm and if he would like to take his robe off. "I get cold easily," Patrick had lied. He needed his clothing, an additional armor to combat his nervousness in what he knew was about to come. The marquess had insisted that sleeping on the same bed would be for appearances, to give credence to the lie. But Patrick knew that should the marquess insist, he could, and Patrick would oblige him. _If you will marry, and take a husband or wife, be gentle,_ he remembered his aging nursemaid speaking to him when he was old enough to be told of such things. _But if your husband takes you, it is your duty to bear it._ His nursemaid had combed the hair out of his face, eyes sad. _And never think that you are less for bearing it. Maybe if you love your husband, you might even come to enjoy it._ When his mother heard of Patrick's nursemaid's words, she had her sent away. _That is not your lot, my dear,_ she had said sternly, _you are our heir and you will have a wife._ Patrick didn't understood it then, but he understood it now.

Patrick nervously patted down the covers. "I'm not used to sleeping with anything less." The marquess had not pressed any further and just turned his back on him to sleep. Patrick had been awake that entire night, apprehensively waiting for the proprietary hand and the marquess' weight on top of him. To his surprise and great relief, it did not come. Nor did it come on the other nights that followed. Patrick now slept to the cadence of the marquess' breathing, oddly relieved, but sad that this would be his life from hereon. _No sense in complaining,_ Patrick berated himself _. I could have had it far worse—if Lord Bowman had not cared, I would've been married to a far lesser man._ But a secret part of him also knew that if things had been different, he could have had something better. Someone who loved him, for one.

"All that's missing is your coat and your shoes," the marquess suddenly loomed over him, brow shiny from the heat and halfway through the state of undress, shirt already untucked from his breeches. "I've never known any man who slept in as many clothes as you."

"I've never known any man who walked around as unclothed as you," Patrick retorted a little too sharply, startled by the marquess' sudden appearance. Maybe it was the thought of spending years in a companionable but loveless marriage, but Patrick didn't know why the line of the marquess' throat going down to the valley of his chest aggrieved him so. He tugged at his robe that had fallen open while he was lying down, nettled, while the marquess grinned over him. His eyes very briefly followed the curve of Patrick's jaw before catching himself and standing back, embarrassed. Patrick flushed. In the background, Kitty gave Hartman a small, pointed look.

"How was your day?" Patrick said aloud, sitting up from the chaise.

In response, the marquess sat down wearily in the chair across Patrick. Dirt scored his fingernails and his shirt was streaked with grime. He looked a terrible sight.

"Hartman, Kitty, ask one of the inn's maids for some cold ale." Patrick looked at the marquess, who'd now closed his eyes to rest his head backward. "And ask for a bath to be drawn."

"No need, thank you, I can do that for myself," the marquess spoke without opening his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Patrick asked hesitantly, hand reaching out to touch the marquess' arm from where it was resting on the arm of the chair.

"Just a few troubles." Jon opened his eyes and smiled tiredly. "Nothing for you to worry about."

"Troubles?" Patrick echoed. He pulled up a chair closer to the marquess. It wasn't like Patrick had other things to do or places to go in Blackburg. "Tell me," he smiled encouragingly. "I've been told by some that I'm a good listener."

Jon looked at Patrick. He was wearing a silk shirt whose cuffs were frilled with lace and a velvet robe, here, in the country, where nearly everyone wore homespun. Patrick, by some strange loyalty to him, had not simply packed his things and taken himself and his men back to London. He looked sincere, however, and Jon appreciated that Patrick had the grace to pretend to listen to something that he later would probably find tedious and uninteresting.

"The plow horses have hoof rot. Which is a problem in itself, but it doesn't matter because the plow is broken," Jon spoke, his voice low with fatigue. "Only a third of the land has been plowed. I've sent my men to Rockford, the village next to us, to ask, but they're also busy plowing their land. None can be spared."

Patrick knew nothing about the business of running a vast agricultural estate. He was raised in a family who were only managing and expanding wealth that was already present. He learned his sums and his numbers and could quote figures from his head. He could read ledgers in one glance and could derive profits and losses from columns of what some other people would only see as abstract squiggles on paper. But the troubles of those who labored were not something that he knew.

However, he was a Kane, and any kind of industry roused his curiosity. And that was how he found himself listening to the marquess the next day, after he'd come back from the fields. Patrick was waiting for him in the parlor. Ink, quills, and sheets of paper ready by the table at his elbow.

"Should we have bought more plows? And do we not have any farriers to help?" Patrick asked, tapping his finger against the note he'd jotted, _do we have plows? do we have farriers? Ask!_ The marquess found Patrick's avid curiosity about the tiring details of the estate strangely charming.

"Plows are hewn from wood and have to be made. And the blacksmith and the farrier were part of those villagers that left a few years back. Rockford has lent their apprentices, but these lads are too young and still too inexperienced in the skill of their work." Jon explained.

"Could we not buy them, instead of having them made." Patrick was scribbling something furiously. Jon, peering sideways from where he sat beside Patrick, saw that he was writing more names on a what looked like a list of his London acquaintances that had estates in the country. _Bollig and Shaw, maybe?_ was written in Patrick's looping hand. So that explained the sudden number of letters going out of Blackburg.

"That's a costly way to run an estate. Buying something that breaks easily," Jon admonished."Better to have a skilled craftsman ready."

Their conversations were now happening daily, Jon relishing his role as a guide to Patrick's wide-eyed inquisitiveness, and whose questions now spilled outside of the parlor to their bedroom. Jon and Patrick would talk from afternoon until dinner, and sometimes, even before they tucked themselves in to sleep.

"And so, some journeymen can move from one farm to another—" Jon drifted off but caught himself, smiling apologetically at Patrick.

Patrick, taking pity on Jon, who'd been overseeing the cattle the entire day, reached out and pressed a hand on Jon's arm. "Hush, tell me those things tomorrow, close your eyes and get some rest."

Jon made as if to speak but Patrick shushed him, his thumb running up and down the soft inner skin of Jon's arm, until they both fell asleep.

* * *

**While the _HMS Salsette_ was anchored awaiting Ottoman permission to dock in Constantinople, Lord George Gordon Byron and Lieutenant Ekenhead, of the _Salsette_ 's Marines, swam across the Hellespont, a remarkable Feat that was an Ode to Leander's nightly Visit to his lover, Hero. Many have thought this a foolish Endeavor, but for Some, not so. 'I would swim the Hellespont nightly, if it meant that I would be near to my Heart's Dearest' writes one of our Readers, a certain Mr. B Gallagher from...**

**(Excerpt from _The Courier_ )**

* * *

Nearly two weeks after they first had their conversation in the parlor, Patrick started surprising the marquess with insightful questions on the way things were being done. "But you _don't_ have a skilled craftsman Jon," Patrick argued heatedly, still on the topic that they've started weeks ago. Hands on his hips and staring indignantly at the marquess, who'd removed his shirt to prepare to sleep, he pointed out, "And how long do you have before spring is done? There are acres left to plow. You _must_ see sense and purchase plows for now, and find your craftsman later." Patrick sat down in a huff on his side of the bed, the mattress under him giving an angry squeak.

Fluffing his pillows, Patrick added, "I know some people in London and… My lord? What is it?"

The marquess, eyes sleepy and half-lidded, was staring at Patrick, a small smile on his lips. "You called me Jon."

Patrick reddened. He hadn't noticed that small slip of tongue. He felt sheepish at being caught but decided to brazen it out. So what if he did?

"So I did," Patrick feigning nonchalance while stuffing the pillow at his back. "What of it? It _is_ your name," he shrugged.

"I like it," the marquess blew out the candle beside their bed and slid down to settle to sleep.

"Why?" Patrick asked, his eyes still adjusting to the dark. He felt the marquess turn to face him, his breath subtly fanning Patrick's cheek.

"I don't know." He could hear the sheets rustle as the marquess shrugged. "It just pleases me that you think of me as Jon, and no longer the marquess." He gave a large yawn, and settled deeper into his pillows. "Even if it's only once in a while," he said drowsily. A few minutes later, Patrick heard a steady stream of loud breathing, a signal that the marquess had fallen asleep.

* * *

**Sir Humphry Davy, known Chemist and Inventor, has concluded that Dephlogisticated Muriatic Acid Air is an Element and not a Compound, and is set to present his findings to the Royal Society. When asked by his Good Friend, the Vicegreve Henrik Lundqvist, if this was his Greatest Discovery yet, he responded with a laugh, telling 'No, that would be my Assistant, Mr Faraday'.**

**(Excerpt from _The Globe_ )**

* * *

The marquess' offhand comment commenced what was, admittedly at first, just a spot of light mischief over a sleepy confession.

"Good morning, _Jon_ ,"

"Tea, _Jon_?"

"Would you like me to pour you more wine, _Jon_?"

The marquess— _Jon_ , Patrick corrected himself, chuckling silently, looked very much put-upon.

"I regret saying that in my moment of vulnerability," he drunkenly grouched at Patrick, while they sat together and went through Jon's old copy of David Henry's _The Complete English Farmer_ after dinner. Juliette's loud snores and the cackling firewood the only other sound in the quiet of the inn. It was late, and the rest of the house was asleep.

"It just pleases me that you think of me as Jon, and no longer the marquess," Patrick, also rosy from the strong wine that they've both been imbibing since dinner, mocked him, exaggerating Jon's baritone. Jon, annoyed, reached out to painfully tug a curl near Patrick's ear before Patrick slapped Jon's hand away in retaliation. The ensuing drunken slap-fight was loud enough to warrant Hartman in his nightshirt to come down from his room and hiss irately at them from the stairs.

After saying their apologies, they went up, still giggling. They both slowly disrobed, the wine making their fingers clumsy. Seeing Jon struggling with a button on his shirt, Patrick came over to help, knocking Jon's fingers away. Jon had somehow knotted the button with a loose thread and the only way for him to now remove his shirt was either pluck the button out or cut the thread with a knife, both for which they were both too drunk to do.

Patrick shook his head. "Jon, Jon, Jon, _Jonathan_ ," he slurred, dragging out the last syllable in a breathy voice. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

Jon had stopped wrestling with his shirt and was staring at Patrick, silent. Patrick had always been unnerved at how Jon had such dark eyes, that seemed pupil-less even in the light. Kitty had once remarked on how they looked like the flat black eyes of the sea creatures sailors said lurked in the Mediterranean. He didn't know if it was the wine, but suddenly, the room felt too warm. Patrick licked his lips nervously.

Jon dropped his eyes to Patrick's mouth, seemingly mesmerized by the drag of Patrick's tongue over his lower lip. Patrick felt both curiously expectant and also suddenly out of depth, his heart thrumming in his ears.

Someone rapped at the door. Jon hastily looked away and Patrick blinked, mood broken. It was Hartman, checking on the noises from their room. Patrick busied himself with changing into his night clothes and going to bed. Jon did the same, lying stiffly down on his side, the moment prior making things awkward for any of their usual late-night conversations.

Patrick had closed his eyes and was about to sleep when Jon whispered, "Patrick."

"What is it?" Patrick said softly, not opening his eyes. The wine and that strange instant had made his head feel heavy.

"Would you like to ride with me to see the entire estate?" Jon sounded uncertain, as if afraid that Patrick would refuse him. "We've had so many conversations about Blackburg and it seems that you've a keen mind for learning more. I was wondering since we're married...," Jon paused again before continuing, "...if you would like to see our whole estate. With me."

"Of course," Patrick said, voice faint, and added, " _Jon._ " He felt Jon turn, his hand creeping to twine and tug at an errant curl on Patrick's brow. Patrick slapped his hand, laughing quietly, before throwing the covers over his head and falling asleep.

* * *

**Tsar Alexander I has withdrawn from his Alliances in the Continent and has once again opened Russia's Doors for Trade with England. Sir Sidney Crosby has been sent as an Ambassador to St Petersburg to liaise with Baron Yevgeni Vladimirovich Malkin...**

**(Excerpt from _The Star_ )**

* * *

On the day of the promised excursion, it was sunny, with nary a cloud in sight. Patrick and Jon rose early and started their ride by skirting the edges of the estate, riding through the fields and orchards, while Juliette loped around them leisurely. The landscape around Blackburg was redolent with sloping hills and picturesque valleys. Most of the fields were fallow and uncultivated, with very few hands to tend to it. The fruits from the orchard trees were left to rot on the ground. Jon told Patrick that the villagers were welcome to pick from the land, and the villagers returned the favor by gifting Jon's family with the fruits of its bounty—jugs of cider, stone jars of chutney and jam, and pies, so many pies.

"And you've not sent any of your produce to London to be sold for profit?" Patrick was already eyeing the land critically. Weeks of conversations with Jon had his mind scheming on how to turn the land—with Jon's guidance, of course—into something viable. The sheer acreage that he'd just seen coupled with the lack of profit made his Kane business senses positively ill.

"Remember the blacksmith and the farrier?" Patrick nodded. "We suffered several bad harvests and a lot of the tenants, including them, left for the lure of better prospects in the ports or towns." Jon clicked his tongue to call Juliette back, whose nose had picked up the scent of a squirrel. She was heavy with her first litter, her middle bulging with puppies. Jon didn't want her injured. "Those that were left helped, but they were mostly old men and women. Not a lot of strong hands. So it was left to a few of us to do what we can. And as I was telling you the other night, the harvest is enough, just barely, to keep the estate and the village fed. There is no surplus to sell."

Patrick's idea of the English peerage who called themselves 'gentlemen farmers' was that of a soft lot whose only involvement in their estates meant occasionally idling in the country to recuperate from the city heat or to participate in leisurely hunts. He'd never really met anyone during his stay in London who held a plow, let alone know what it was until he'd met Jon. He listened avidly when Jon spoke of Blackburg, of the farming and the harvest, of the cattle that grazed it.

They were now circling towards the middle, bypassing a pond full of ducks, the ruins of a Cistercian abbey, and the wooden skeletons of old plant nurseries.

"My great-great-grandfather once used to cultivate rare plants brought from the Indies and the Americas." Jon pointed to the decrepit, listing buildings. "I've got his blood, my father says. That itch to see the most difficult things grow."

Patrick looked towards a strip of unplowed field that sloped across a small hill. He'd convinced Jon to buy the plows, in the end, winning in their argument. Jon was expecting their arrival any day now.

"The dower money—you've spent nothing from it on yourself." Patrick cocked his head towards Jon, puzzled. "Hartman receives letters from the bank whenever large sums are taken out, and he lets me know. After the settlements were arranged, I was waiting for you to buy fine horses or a carriage or any of the thousand affectations that gentlemen seem to have, but the only thing that you've spent it on, outside of paying off your estate's debts, are _plows_. And you didn't even want to buy them, if I had not convinced you to do so. I'm beginning to think, Lord Toews, that you've married me, not for your own personal gain like I first thought, but rather for your family and Blackburg."

Patrick glanced at Jon, who was smiling, eyes lowered bashfully. He looked very young when he did that, like a little boy being praised. "That's a great risk, Jon, marrying a stranger that you've never met. I could've been vicious, grotesque, and completely horrible. Yet you did."

Jon looked both proud and sheepish. "Was that foolish of me?"

"No." Patrick thought back on his reason for accepting the marriage. It was not as grand as Jon's. No legacy needed saving. Only, sadly, his foolish self. "It was very brave."

* * *

_October 1806, four years ago_

_Autumn_

Patrick was quiet during their entire Atlantic crossing, even with Hartman, Hayden, and Kitty's best efforts to lure him out of his cabin with the sights from the deck of the _Ranger_. He ate little and slept only a few hours of fitful sleep. It was a stroke of good fortune that they were all hale for the voyage with no sea-sickness or illnesses to deal with. They kept to themselves, Captain McDonagh and his crew likewise keeping themselves at a respectable distance.

They arrived in England during the night, so the charms of the Thames and the Port of London were lost in the night-time fog. They had no idea where to go, but they were armed with several bank drafts and letters of introduction written by Patrick's family before their hurried departure. Hartman felt uncomfortable and looked around the wharf, where riff-raff lounged around with sailors and merchants. The amount of wealth that each of them had on their person was enough to make him eye everyone with suspicion.

"There's so many people," Kitty stared beside Patrick. Patrick looked around nervously, and drew closer to his friend.

"Kitty, keep close," Hayden warned, ushering them between himself and Hartman. "We'll look for an inn for the night."

They walked, huddled against each other before they noticed that two men had been following them for some distance from the port. Hayden and Hartman, no stranger to brawls, caught each other's eye and nodded.

Hayden pushed a bewildered Kitty and Patrick to the side, while Hartman wheeled around and slammed his knee in one of the men's middle while knocking the other man flat to the wall with the heel of his hand.

"We're not fools," Hartman growled low between his teeth, while he fisted his hands in the man's shirt. "I suggest you run along."

"Are you… are you Mr. Kane, sir?" The man, upon closer inspection, was just a young man out of boyhood, tall and thin for his age. He was shaking from fright.

"What?" Hartman blinked, momentarily thrown off.

"Are you Mr. Patrick Kane?" the boy repeated again, stuttering from fear.

"No, and we don't know anyone with that name," Hayden said suspiciously from where he had foot at the other man's neck, forcing him to remain prone on the ground.

"We don't want no trouble sir, we've come looking for Mr. Patrick Kane," the man choked under Hayden's foot. "Lord Bowman sent us."

"Fuck off, we don't know anyone with that name," Hartman dismissed, but Patrick, hearing the name, spoke up. "Let him go, Hartman."

"Do you know who they're talking about?" Hayden asked.

"Yes," Patrick said, tugging Hartman's hand down. "He's our host."

After the men had righted themselves and Hartman and Hayden had given their gruff apologies, the men led them to a lighted street corner where a dark and expensively-furnished coach was waiting for them. They rode on, Hartman and Hayden still alert for any evidence of trouble.

They arrived at the courtyard of a grand house, just on the outskirts of London, and were ushered out of the carriage and to its front doors. A servant escorted them to a library where a man was waiting for Patrick, dressed down in deference to the lateness of the hour.

"Is that you Patrick?" the man peered at him, raising a quizzing glass. He looked pale, as if from an illness. "Come closer, boy."

Patrick drew closer, shrugging his greatcoat off and stepping near the light of the fireplace from which the man sat close to, feet wrapped in a thick blanket.

"It _is_ you. You have the look of your mother about you, but for your father's eyes." The man beckoned him closer, pointing to the seat across him. Patrick sat gingerly, looking at the man. "You'll forgive me, I've been ill for some time," the man smiled. "Do you remember me?"

Patrick recalled the man's name mentioned sometimes, during their family dinners or hushed conversations.

"I've heard father and mother mention you, Lord Bowman." Patrick frowned, trying hard to remember. "But no, I don't remember you." After a pause, he added, "My lord," remembering his manners.

Lord Bowman gave a weak laugh. "Of course. You were a small child, not higher than my knee, so you might have forgotten when I came for a visit." His skin looked sallow in the firelight and he adjusted the blanket on his lap closer. "My men told me that a Kane was on board one of the ships to England and I wondered why no one told me that they'd be visiting. But I feel that your arrival isn't a visit." The man looked at him shrewdly, hand extending out. "Hand me your mother's letter, I know she has one."

Patrick took a worn letter from the pocket of his coat and placed it in the man's waiting hand. He broke the wafer-thin seal and read it, humming thoughtfully at some parts.

"It seems like you're in a bit of trouble." Lord Bowman folded back the letter, setting it aside.

"I can't go home," Patrick said bluntly. "I've lost my home," he repeated, angry, the first sign of emotion after weeks of silence. "I will never see my father, my mother, my sisters, or any other member of my family. My men, the same." He balled his fists at his side. "It's all my fault."

Lord Bowman only gave a small hum after hearing Patrick's outburst. "Well, you might not be able to go home _now_ ," he said, tapping his fingers on the arms of his chair. "But maybe someday, you will." Lord Bowman gave a small grin.

"I wish that day would come sooner," Patrick said, bitter at the thought and not ready to be appeased. "If it comes at all."

"You must wait. Your family won't sit idly by, they'll do everything to get you back," Lord Bowman advised. "But until then, maybe you'll find a home for yourself here, in England."

Patrick looked around, out the dark windows where a heavy fog blanketed the London evening. Home was America. He would never love this cold, alien country, or its strange people.

"Never," he said with finality.

* * *

_May 1810, England, present day_

_Spring_

They finished the tour of the estate with a circuit of the farms, Patrick accompanying Jon in inspecting their livestock. After going through a multitude of bleating, braying, and lowing beasts, they rode leisurely back before Jon decided that they should stop to eat their nearly-forgotten repast. They hitched both horses to a low-hanging branch and Jon took a square of roughly-woven cloth and spread it under an old oak, patting it down to make sure that there weren't any loose rocks underneath before motioning for Patrick to sit. Jon called for Juliette, but she had waddled away to sit in a warm patch of sun.

He then took the small basket that the innkeeper's mistress had packed and placed it down in front of Patrick. Patrick rummaged through its contents, sniffing the pigeon pies, before wrapping them again in cloth. He wasn't particular about his food—travelling up and down the continent had made him taste a slew of new dishes—but he wasn't adventurous about his choices either. He ate bread, he ate a shoulder of beef, he ate cheese; and he was content with that.

He settled on a small loaf of wheat, breaking it in half with his fingers before offering it to Jon.

Jon looked at it first before waving it away apologetically. "I didn't poison it," Patrick mock-glared over a mouthful of bread.

"No," Jon said, peeling an apple dexterously with a small knife, the skin curling like a delicate ribbon. "I've a weak stomach. Most things, I can eat without any trouble. Some things, not so much," Jon confessed. "They've given me tonics and powders but none have worked." He sliced the apple in neat quarters, picking out the seeds and the core with the tip of his knife, before placing them in Patrick's waiting palm. "So I'm careful. My fellows in school thought I was being a right aristocrat about it, turning up my nose at the food served in the hall. But I just really couldn't, because if I did, I'd feel queasy and sick."

Patrick frowned, and fished through the assortment of food in the basket. "What _can_ you eat?" They hadn't eaten the entire day and he didn't want Jon to grow light-headed with hunger.

"There's a loaf of dark bread and some boiled eggs," Jon pointed. He was still peeling apples for Patrick, occasionally sneaking himself a slice. Patrick handed them over, mentally filing the things that Jon just said. In the distance, Juliette raised her head and looked at them, squinting, as if to check on what mischief her human charges were up to. Jon whistled for her, but she ignored him, dropping her head back to nap.

Patrick ate a chunk of bread with some cheese and washed it down with a bottle of wine. Beside him, Jon had grown quiet and was distractedly peeling and slicing more apples, too much for Patrick to ever eat in one sitting.

"I think I've had enough apples Jon," Patrick said, amused.

Jon dipped his head, chuckling. He wiped down his knife with a corner of his shirt before speaking. "The other night, I—"

Patrick thought that Jon had forgotten about that. He'd never once spoken about it in the days that followed. Patrick had written it off as the folly of two men with too much spirits. "That was a strange moment, wasn't it?" Patrick nudged Jon with his foot. "The wine must've gotten into our heads."

Whatever Jon was about to say was forgotten when a fat drop of rain suddenly fell on his cheek. Predictably, in the manner of English weather, the bright sunlight of the midday morning quickly turned into cold, pounding rain.

* * *

**Vice Admiral Cuthbert Collingwood, Baron Collingwood, has died on board the _Ville de Paris_ , just off Port Mahon while sailing back for England. He will be laid to rest beside his Friend, Officer and Predecessor, Vice Admiral Horatio Nelson, Viscount Nelson, Duke of Bronté, in a crypt in St Paul's Cathedral. One of Lord Admiral Collingwood's earliest campaigns was sailing to Boston with Admiral Samuel Graves on board _HMS Preston_ , where they encountered the _Ours Brun_ , a 110-gun Ship captained by Vice-amiral d'escardre Patrice Bergeron-Cleary and part of the formidable Amiral Chara's Fleet…**

**(Excerpt from _The Statesman_ )**

* * *

With their excursion cut short by the rain, Jon and Patrick went home, clothes soaking. The ride was half an hour back and made more difficult by the slippery earth. By the time that they were back at the inn, their clothes were weighed down by rainwater. Paul called for a bath, and they were directed to the inn's kitchen, where the heat of the spits and the ovens could warm them up. The innkeeper gave them thick blankets and warm possets, Patrick cradling his cup between his hands.

They sat as close to the open heat as possible, being mindful of the embers. Patrick shivered uncontrollably, feeling the cold still wrapped in his bones. Jon inched subtly closer.

Juliette sat at their feet, whining and shaking, her short fur damp with rainwater. Jon sneaked his hand out from the blanket that he'd wrapped around himself and patted her consolingly, soothing her and running his hand down her middle. "Silly girl, you should've stayed home."

Patrick, normally apathetic towards dogs, minded Juliette's cries, and also held out his hand to stroke Juliette's soft ears. Juliette muzzled his hand gratefully.

The trestle tables were moved and a large copper tub was placed in the middle, with Paul and some of the inn's maids bringing in buckets of steaming water. They were followed by the innkeeper's wife, who laid down balls of soap and sponges, several squares of linen cloth to dry themselves, and a set of shirts and drawers for both Jon and Patrick. After everything was done, she gently shooed the others out, to give Patrick and Jon some privacy for themselves.

"Go ahead." Jon still had Juliette between his legs. The mastiff had finally stopped shaking and had closed her eyes, her head on Jon's thigh.

The water was still steaming but if Jon waited for Patrick to finish, the water would grow cold, not to mention murky, from Patrick's bath. Patrick didn't want Jon, already sodden and muddy, to soak in the water that he'd already bathed in nor did he want to bother the innkeeper with the trouble of boiling and carrying more water.

"Join me," Patrick was already removing his sodden coat and boots, and unstrapping his breeches. "No sense in you waiting while the tub's large enough to fit us both." He had removed his breeches and drawers and was only left with his shirt. The length reached down to the middle of his thighs, leaving his knees and calves exposed.

After Jon had peeled off his sopping clothes, they shared the bath in companionable silence, letting the warmth of the water soak through their bones before washing themselves down with small spheres of soap and sponge. Patrick only removed his shirt once he was in the tub, to prevent any further chill. Jon, normally not averse to touching Patrick during the past weeks, either his arm while sitting companionably together or leading him by his elbow, now kept his legs and the lower half of his body conspicuously away from Patrick's own.

After making sure that he was clean, Patrick reached for a small bucket near the tub for one last rinse. He stood up and stepped out, quickly drying himself off with a large square of thick linen. He busied himself with putting on his clean shirt and drawers, mindful of the cold as well as his nakedness. The clean smell of Pears soap wafted off him and the heat of the water had made his fair skin the red and cream of milk and roses.

Jon stayed in the bath and made no move to follow, his eyes fixed on the soapy water while Patrick tied the cords that held his drawers together.

"Are you not done?" Patrick asked, shaking the last drops of water from his hair. The bath had removed the oil and pomade that usually tamed his hair down, and it was now curling into soft ringlets.

"Not yet," Jon said. A flush had crept from his chest to his neck.

"Do you want some company? I've read about how farmers in Norfolk grew their crops in a cycle, with no fallow fields—"

"You must be tired," Jon swallowed, throat bobbing. "Go on to bed without me. I'd like to spend a little more time in the bath."

Patrick felt secretly disappointed. He'd asked Kitty and Hayden to purchase farming encyclopedias and manuals for him, poring over them and taking note of ideas that he found clever and would be of use to Blackburg. He'd hoped that tonight would be the night that he'd impress Jon with the knowledge that he'd gleaned from those long hours spent reading in the afternoon, while he impatiently waited for Jon to come back to the inn. But it seemed that it would have to wait. Jon looked as if he wanted some time for himself, probably away from Patrick's questions for once, and relish the silence while soaking up in the bath.

Patrick smiled with forced cheer and said his good nights. He dearly hoped that Jon wasn't growing tired of him.

* * *

**A,**

**All London is alive with Gossip on Kane. It seems our small Friend has decamped London and has wed Toews, of all People. The Town could talk of nothing in the Gaming Tables or the Drawing Rooms these past few Days except how our stodgy and frumpy Marquess has caught himself a Prize.**

**I've heard Rumors from Burish (who keeps good Company with Sharp, who in turn, is a Friend of Toews) that it was a Love Match, and, after falling in love in a chance Meeting on one of Lord Bowman's Dinners, that they've been exchanging loving Correspondences ever since! This is completely out of Toews' Character, I know, since I've never seen him look twice at anything that isn't attached to a farm Plow or a Saddle so it must be True Love.**

**On to a different subject. It's a good thing that you've refused your Father, as Mine wants me to represent Him in our Interests in the Canadas. I don't know about you but I'd rather be in some French Province rather than be in the Wilderness, dying of boredom in some Expedition up the Bow River.**

**B**

* * *

The rain continued, unabated, and Patrick, his men, and Jon were left to spend their days inside the inn. On the third day, with the rain still not showing any signs of stopping, Paul ushered in two visitors in the form of a very sodden Seabrook and Keith.

Seabrook was the oldest of the marquess' boyhood friends. He became the marquess' valet in the same vein that Hartman became Patrick's—they were good men who had an unfortunate capability to help dress their terribly-garbed friends. Jon named Seabrook his valet after his London cousins asked why he spent so much time in the company of a mere parson's son, while Patrick had to excuse why Hartman (as well as Hayden and Kitty) had to travel closely with him throughout the continent. 'Helping them dress' was also very relative. Seabrook occasionally handed Jon his coat and called it that while Hartman kept track of Patrick's numerous clothes and made his views known on how horrible most of them were.

Keith was with him, the estate manager and Seabrook's own bosom friend, who by extension through Seabrook, also became Jon's.

"Good day," Seabrook said gruffly, as Patrick came down. Keith smiled at him. Patrick noticed a few teeth missing. "Or not so good, with this blasted weather." Patrick didn't know that they had arrived, as he'd been in upstairs, sleeping the dreary morning off. He'd only come down for a small plate of noon-day food.

"We've brought the ledgers. With this rain, we might as well as go over the accounts with Jon." Keith unwrapped the oilcloth that bound a leather satchel and pulled out a thick book with the Blackburg-Hawke crest stamped faintly on the cover.

Seabrook had called for some tea and brandy, while they were working on the accounts in the parlor. Patrick, lured by the ledgers, stood by the fringes, hunger forgotten. Jon, noticing Patrick from the corner of his eye, pulled a chair for him and beckoned him to sit. Patrick thanked him with a grateful smile. Jon then called for Paul to serve some cold ham and bread for Patrick, quickly, as he had not come down for food the entire morning. Patrick sat and listened to them quietly, nibbling on a slice of toast, while Jon and his men went through the incomes and expenditure of the estate—the rents, the leased land, sale of crops, deducted with the cost of running it.

All three were going through some of the old receipts for animal feed when Patrick gently tugged the ledger from where it lay open under Jon's arm.

The column of figures was written in a neat, sloping hand, but there was no method or logic to the items listed. The ledger listed all of the estate's accounts along with the ducal family's household spending, even down to their clothing (Patrick mentally filed away a small entry for a pair of brown leather boots that Jon purchased a few years past) and trifles, from shirts to the duchess' tea. It was neatly-penned chaos.

Stealing a small sheaf of paper, Patrick ran through the list and separated the estate's business from the ducal family's. He quickly went through the estate's accounts and found something worrying—the cost of managing Blackburg greatly exceeded its income, threefold.

Patrick looked at Jon, who was still puzzling over some receipts and sums with Keith. Blackburg was not floundering, it was already close to ruin. Patrick's wealth could shore it up but Jon, like most men of the peerage, held very little understanding of all the intricacies for business and profit. He led the estate, and worked tirelessly to do so. But if he didn't have the mind to make it profitable, any money sunk into it would only be lost.

"No, Jon. We must increase the rent," Keith argued.

Seabrook nodded. "The tenants have not had an increase in years, ever since your great-grandfather's time."

Jon looked at the account books grimly. "The Reeves are too old, and they lost their only son in Trafalgar."

Keith sighed and Seabrook raised his hands in defeat. Jon stared down at both of them mulishly.

 _You've a head for business my boy,_ Patrick's grandfather had told him once, _when the time comes, you'll make the family proud one day._ Patrick knew that he couldn't now. He looked down at his hand, where Jon's signet ring rested on his finger. He'd often find himself turning it on his hand, or, on one memorable occasion, he'd caught Jon staring at him while he was absentmindedly worrying it with his teeth and tongue.

The Blackburg-Hawke crest was cut in bas-relief on the top of the ring—a hawk, wings spread, holding two crossed hatchets in its talons, symbolizing strength and hard work. Underneath it was the Blackburg-Hawke motto: _Unus finis_. One goal.

Beside him, Jon was still pointedly ignoring Keith's suggestions. He saw Jon's face again, asking him shyly, _do you think me foolish?_

Patrick looked at the account books and saw the line of numbers. He knew what to do. It was there, plain as day. He didn't have Jon's lifelong knowledge of the farm or what to do in the fields, but he _did_ know the intricacies of money and profit.

 _Unus finis._ We fight for one goal, Jon had explained, when Patrick had asked what it meant.

He could help turn the tide for Blackburg.

Patrick looked at Keith and Seabrook and the germ of an idea formed in his head.

* * *

**Tears will be shed and breasts will be rent, for word around Town is that Lord JT of BH has married Mr PK of NY. Sources close to us told that they were married by special dispensation in a private ceremony of less than ten guests in St. George's Church, in Hanover Square, London. Lord JT's family was not present, but Mr PK's guardian was there to act as witness. Lord JT, famous heir to an illustrious and old name, was reportedly smitten with his new husband, whose affluent family has been known to control interests from Halifax to the South Seas. Our sources also tell that the blissful couple saw each other in a chance meeting and Lord JT has courted Mr PK with such fervor and intensity...**

**(Excerpt from the _Lady's Monthly Museum_ )**

* * *

The marquess, after informing Patrick that he would be gone for a few days to attend to some business in Rockford, presented Patrick with a perfect opportunity to go about his scheme.

The night before Jon left, Patrick asked one of the inn's household lads to deliver a short message to Keith, telling him that he would like to ask some questions on matters of the estate. He'd sent the note asking if they could meet mid-morning, after Jon had left.

Patrick rose early and, after saying a cheery goodbye to Jon, sat in the parlor, ink stones, pens, and sheaves of paper ready.

After the minutes ticked by and turned to hours, Patrick, bored, sent the same lad and asked if Keith was on his way and the lad came back shaking his head. Patrick gave him a coin for his trouble and, now aggrieved by Keith's tardiness, went up to find the man himself.

After getting directions from Paul, he walked down from the village to a small well-kept cottage just outside of it, covered in moss. After knocking on the door a number of times, Patrick circled to the back, where he saw a small child playing under a wooden garden table.

"Er. Hello." Patrick waggled his fingers.

The boy, seeing Patrick, inched closer, prodding him with a wooden stick curiously before retreating back deeper.

Patrick, no stranger to boys and having grown up surrounded by playfellows, bent down and peered underneath. With the child were painted toy soldiers in pitched battles with blocks of wood. "Hello," he tried again, holding out his hand. "I'm Patrick."

The child stared at Patrick's hand before touching it shyly with small fingers. Patrick beamed.

"His name's Carter and that's his fort, my lord."

Patrick, taken by surprise, bumped his head on the table and cursed loudly. Carter giggled.

"I'd tell you to not say such things, but I know Jon has said much more, in English _and_ French. It's a good thing that Carter's a smart young lad who knows well enough to not repeat them. Well, at least not in front of his mother and polite company."

"Ah, hello and, ah, good day, Seabrook." Patrick stood up and dusted his breeches, silently thanking Kitty who'd told him to wear darker ones to match his gray coat.

"Anything I can do for you my lord?" Seabrook nodded his head perfunctorily and motioned for Patrick to follow him inside the house. He looked as if he was interrupted in the middle of fitting himself to go out, his neckcloth untied and shirt still untucked.

"I asked for Keith and they pointed me here, but," Patrick babbled, confused, looking around. He specifically asked where Duncan Keith, the estate manager, lived, but Seabrook was here and now Patrick was trying to think desperately if he'd gotten the directions wrong or he'd been mistakenly calling them each other's names or… _or_ …Patrick's mind ground to a halt. Carter, playing under the table. The children pointing him to this house as Keith's home. Seabrook half-dressed. "Are you… Is…" Patrick waved his hand around the parlor vaguely.

"No," Seabrook chuckled. "But you're not the first one to ask."

"Oh," Patrick felt foolish. "I am sorry, I assumed…" he waved his hands, as if to explain.

"We've grown up together our entire lives." Seabrook reached for a wooden tea caddy, opening it quickly to check its contents and then closing it to set in front of Patrick, who was seated at the kitchen table. "We've married and had children at the same time too. The missus used to say that I'll be buried with her at one side and with Duncan on the other." After making sure that everything was set for Patrick, Seabrook took a small polished silver plate and placed it standing on the window sill. Using it as his mirror, he efficiently wound the cravat around his neck and tied it into a small business-like knot. "He's spent as much time in this house as I have his. The reason people in Blackburg would sooner point anyone looking for Duncan to my house than they would his is because everyone knows I'm that man's minder."

Patrick flipped the lid of the caddy, inhaling the dry, fragrant smell of green tea leaves. The smell reminded him of his mother's parlor, where she received visitors, while Patrick and his sisters watched in awe at the parade of men with stiff powdered wigs and women gliding along in their wide skirts. A sad pang of homesickness welled up in Patrick.

"I'm on my way to his house, matter of fact. You can walk with me and let me know what your business would be. His lordship didn't tell us that you'd be visiting."

"Jon doesn't know," Patrick admitted. "But Jon has shown me the whole of Blackburg and I've glimpsed the accounts and ledgers and I think that it would be best if I also saw and knew more from Keith, who'd been managing part of the estate's business for some time."

Seabrook looked at him, gauging. Unlike Sharp, whom Patrick had formed a loose friendship with, visiting the inn for tea, sometimes even with his delightful wife and child in tow, Seabrook and Keith were the quieter of Jon's men, keeping to themselves and deferring to Jon for conversation instead of Patrick. Patrick hoped that Seabrook did not think that he was prying in the estate's business, though if one were to argue, it would undoubtedly be within Patrick's rights to do so.

"Well, that won't be a problem. He'd be glad to answer your questions," Seabrook finally said after a pause, which Patrick took as a sign that Seabrook had decided to believe that Patrick was not out for mischief.

After Seabrook had finished with his morning dress, he donned his cap and shouted his goodbyes to an unseen person on the second floor, whom Patrick assumed was his wife.

They walked down the road to Keith's house, falling into an easy conversation about Blackburg. Patrick, always inquisitive and keen, asked his questions while Seabrook answered them, reserving some of the the ones that he couldn't answer for Keith.

Keith's house was the last house on the lane, a cheery affair with small potted geraniums on the window sills. Seabrook opened the door without preamble, using a flat, massive key from his coat pocket. He placed his hat on a small table and asked Patrick to make himself comfortable in the best seat in Keith's parlor.

"Shouldn't we call Keith?" Patrick asked. Seabrook was sawing through a loaf of bread and placing the slices on a plate, along with some fruit and cheeses, as well as a few choice cuts of fatty ham.

"Oh, he'll come down on his own time." Seabrook placed them on a table beside Patrick, who politely declined. Seabrook shrugged and chewed on a piece of cheese.

Patrick sighed. He'd stewed about his plans for days until Jon had left. And he needed Duncan Keith for his plans to come to fruition if the man would just be _here_.

There was a crash and a stumble from upstairs and Seabrook looked up. "Oh, he's awake."

Keith sauntered down, frowning in surprised confusion upon seeing Patrick. "Well, what brings you here, my lord?"

Patrick was dumbfounded. "I sent a message, asking you to call."

"So you did," Keith agreed, nodding sleepily and scratching his jaw. "But is that today? What day is it, Seabsy?"

Seabrook handed him a cup of something steaming. "Thursday. And yes, that _is_ today."

"Well, then." He looked at Patrick while blowing gently on the cup to cool it down "If Seabsy says it's today." Keith sipped the warm liquid calmly, eyes closed, only opening them to make tutting noises at Patrick. "It's quite late in the noontime for you to call, perhaps you should've called earlier so we could've had a full day ahead."

Patrick looked at him, incredulous.

* * *

**Dearest Mr. Kane,**

**We've met briefly, though only as passing neighbors. I've been informed that a small family of three has knocked on your door earlier today, asking to be received, claiming that they were good friends of yours. A passing nightwatchman would have turned him away, but he carried with him a letter of introduction, signed by your name. I've heard it said that you'd left London for Blackburg, with your men following soon after. I took pity on the small family, with their young daughter, and offered to pay for their coach. I hope that they reach you safely.**

**Your respectful neighbor,**

**B. Richards**

* * *

Keith, once fed and plied with copious amounts of tea, settled in to discuss the business of the estate. Unlike his earlier absent-minded self, he spoke matter-of-factly of the present state of affairs in Blackburg and the problems that they'd been facing. Seabrook supplemented Keith's recounting with anecdotes of his own.

"The marquess took on the problems of the estate at a young age. He was such a conscientious child and the weight of being the heir fell heavily upon him. He helped his father in managing the estate, finally taking over completely in his twentieth year."

"They're a good family, certainly. Not a single drop of vice in their blood," Keith added. "The decline of the estate had been happening for decades. It wasn't as if the duke or Jon squandered the family wealth in wine or on the gaming tables." He shook his head sadly. "And indeed, your money will come in handy. But it's a ship full of holes and all the money we pour in will come to nothing if the estate doesn't find a way to make an interest."

"You were arguing days earlier about raising the rents on the tenants?" Patrick prompted. Most of the landed aristocracy's income from estates came from the rent of the tenants and businesses.

"It's long overdue. Some of these families have been paying the same rent when the Stuarts were still kings." Keith took down a dusty book from a low shelf and showed it to Patrick, grimacing. "But Jon's family has always been loathe to increase it. After all, with there just barely enough crops to harvest and very little work in the village, where would they get the coin to pay?"

"We need more hands," Patrick said, chewing on a fingernail in contemplation. Seeing more accounts of Blackburg's previous years made the estate's situation look more worse. "The few handful of villagers won't be enough. And we can't live off the land alone. There has to be something else." He pulled a sheet where the rents and leases were supposed to be tallied, and it was an alarmingly small total. "We need more businesses. If we bring in more people to farm, they'll bring families. They'd need things. And services. They'd have the coin to buy and pay men or women, and they in turn, would be free to spend on things for themselves or their families." Patrick chewed on the tip of his pen. But Blackburg was not London or Manchester. It was too far away to be chanced upon by migrating families or men and women looking for work.

Unless.

Patrick suddenly remembered the letters in his drawer. He'd met people in his various travels and he'd kept in touch with most of them. Europe, now a powder keg because of Napoleon's ambition, was full of displaced families. He'd been agonizing on what to do for his friends, but now.

_Maybe._

* * *

**The British defeat at the Battle of Grand Port is, by far, the worst the Royal Navy has suffered during this entire War and has left Britain's vital Trade Convoys exposed to attack from France's Frigates. The loss of British Ships and the death or capture of their Crew has been the Subject of much scrutiny. An Inquiry has been called by John Baron Tortorella, who led a fiery Tirade in his seat in the House of Lords. He was asked by the Lord Speaker many times to soften his Speech or take his leave...**

**(Excerpt from _The British Press_ )**

* * *

Jon didn't know what to quite make of the large, imposing man sitting straight-backed in the inn's parlor. He was wearing a coat over a grimy white shirt, the embroidery now worn and faded. He had a craggy Slavic face, with a haughty, patrician nose and a mouth set in a straight line. He had the bearing of a king but was dressed in the clothes of a pauper.

Paul had apologized, saying that he was sorry for waking his lordship up but a man was looking for him, and that he will wait however long. He'd refused all offers of ale or drink and sat there, waiting.

"Excuse me sir," Jon croaked, his voice still scratchy from sleep. "May I ask your business?"

The man stood and bowed formally and stiffly, calling out to Jon. "Markíz," he boomed. "At your service," bowing once again.

Jon stood around blinking, mind still in a fugue of half-wakefulness, before remembering his manners and acknowledging the man with a jerky nod. "Honored."

He handed a letter to Jon, which he read under his breath. It was written in Patrick's looping hand, recommending that the bearer, a certain Vikomt Hossa of Ólubló, was of excellent character and should be given the hospitality befitting any friend of Mr. Patrick Kane.

"I'm sorry…," Jon peered at the letter again, " _Vikomt Marian Hossa_." He was careful to pronounce the man's name, lest he take offense. "But Patrick might not be back until later in the day." Patrick had left for Rockford with Kitty to see their market and might not be back for a few hours.

"Please, markíz. You may call me Hossa. I haven't been called vikomt for a long time, no one has, since old Józef's reforms," he said, genial. "As for Patrick, we've met earlier. My visit is with you." He pronounced Patrick's name the Slovak way, _Patrik_ —a little bit flatter, the vowels a little bit harder. Hossa tilted his head towards his seat as if to say, _may I?_ and Jon motioned, "Please, sit."

"Congratulations on your wedding," he said, in his careful English. " I hope for much prosperity and many children." It was very formulaic, and Jon had a suspicion that this was probably something said by rote in Hossa's language to those newly-married. But the man's voice was heartfelt and sincere, so Jon thanked him graciously, and didn't bother to correct him that he and Patrick might not even have children at all.

"Thank you," Jon said. "It was a small wedding." Five men and a priest, in a dark ballroom. Jon felt a little bit of regret, looking back at it now. There were Fleet Street marriages that had more cheer. Jon imagined how it could have been if it was a proper wedding, in the small village church. He would've liked it on a Sunday morning in spring, when the countryside was redolent with wildflowers.

"...and we chose to leave," Hossa mourned. "But I'd come because Patrick said before that…"

He wondered idly how Patrick would have looked if the wedding had not been hurried and in secret. Would he have worn harebells and daisies into a crown on top of his head? Or maybe cornflower and sprays of chicory? Jon wished that Patrick could wear his hair undone, small curls heartbreakingly soft around his nape and ears, without the heavy oil and pomade that he wore to discipline it into neat waves. Sometimes, in the rare mornings that he'd wake up before Patrick, he'd see him sleeping with his curls framing his face, a Renaissance angel on the wall of the Sistine Chapel.

"...a small estate, not quite as large as this," Hossa said, looking around.

Jon shifted guiltily in his seat. He hadn't been listening. "Well, of course," Jon gestured magnanimously, trying to cover his inattentiveness. After his talk with Hossa maybe he'd sit for a while more in the parlor for a short nap. It was Sunday and he'd relish a little bit of rest.

Hossa looked surprised. Jon tried to remember what they were talking about. Something about estates. "Of course, if there is already one," Hossa hedged. "Or do you not…?"

"I assure you it would be no trouble. We'd welcome you here," Jon assured. "Blackburg has room for another."

Hossa's face broke into a smile of relief. "Thank you," he said, suddenly grasping Jon's hand and shaking it, gratitude evident. "I will do Blackburg honor and tend to it as if it were my own." He shook Jon's hand a few more times before stepping back. "I will tell Patrick the good news." He nodded his head and turned to leave.

Jon was left in the middle of the parlor, with a vague feeling that he just agreed to something important.

* * *

**Dr William Pearson has moved his Elm House School to to East Grove, or as most know it, Temple Grove, the Home of Diplomat and Politician Sir William Temple and where Author Jonathan Swift worked as his Secretary. The School is well-regimented, with an emphasis on both scholarly and athletic Pursuits. Notable Peers and Personages have sent their Sons to take their education among its Halls, such as Viscount Wellington and Daniel Jean-Claude, duc de Brière...**

**(Excerpt from _The Public Ledger_ )**

* * *

"Jon! Hossa tells me that you said yes, that you'll let him work?" Patrick said, breathless, after climbing the stairs. He was flushed and a stray lock of hair had stuck near his cheek from the sweat of his ride in the heat of the day. It distracted Jon, how the curl edged near the corners of Patrick's lips. He wanted to brush it back with a finger and tuck it behind Patrick's ear.

"And you said he'd even be welcome to be a steward! I'm sorry that I didn't tell you and that I invited him here without your knowledge and I _know_ that Keith manages the estate, but with an estate the size Blackburg, maybe I thought, I _thought_! That we could have one to manage the household and one to manage the business of the land?" Patrick said in a rush.

Hartman entered the room, a pitcher and a soft cloth in both hands, pouring the water in the basin for Patrick.

Patrick dipped the cloth in the cool water, while saying, "Please don't be mad Jon, I only wanted to help." He looked at Jon, eyes wide and imploring.

Jon stared at him, open-mouthed. What was Patrick saying? And he did _what_ , exactly? "I… _Did_? I, uh. But."

Patrick's blue eyes clouded and his lower lip started jutting out slightly. A small frown was forming between his eyebrows. "Do you mean… you don't… you _don't_ agree?" he whispered, dejected.

"Well, I mean," Jon hurriedly said. "You make an excellent point. There's so much work to be done! I'll talk to my men," he soothed. "I'm sure they'll see how sensible this plan is and welcome Hossa."

Patrick beamed, dimpling. Jon let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Hossa is a good man, you'll see!" Patrick wiped his face with the wet cloth, before holding out his hand for Hartman's help to remove his coat.

 _Well,_ Hartman thought, watching the marquess fall deeper into the slippery slope of Patrick's charms, _we all knew this was coming_. Hartman lazily wondered if they could just have the grace to fall in love quicker so he could finally win the wager between him, Kitty, and Hayden. A hundred pounds would be such a _delightful_ thing.

* * *

**The Cortes of Cádiz is besieged by 70,000 French Troops. Lieutenant-General Carter will rejoin with Major-General Richards, after his Sojourn in the East, to help launch Campaigns against the French Army and aid the beleaguered Spanish and Portuguese Kings...**

**(Excerpt from _The London Chronicle_ )**

* * *

Jon, Keith, Seabrook, Sharp, and Hossa were all seated together in Jon's cottage.

Hossa, once again sitting straight-backed, but this time in Jon's wooden kitchen chair, stared stonily at Jon's three men. All three had different expressions. Sharp looked inquisitive, Seabrook stared at Hossa right back, and Keith scratched his nose and looked slightly bored.

"So," Jon started. "Marian—"

"Hossa," the man himself interrupted.

"— _Hossa_ will also act as steward and help manage some of the trouble from you Keith," Jon finished.

"Hmm," Keith hummed. He stared at Hossa speculatively before looking at Sharp and Seabrook to mumble, "Hmmmmmmmmmmmm?" Sharp and Seabrook nodded.

"He's managed an estate before," Jon put in helpfully.

"Not of this size," Hossa demurred.

"Yes, well, not of this size," Jon said, apologetic.

"And how did Mr. Hossa come by his new post?" Sharp inquired.

Jon looked shiftily sideways.

"Your husband," Seabrook said drily.

"Of course," Sharp opined, sly.

Keith muttered something about Jon, his weaknesses, and being swayed by pretty blue eyes.

"And what's _that_ supposed to mean," Jon said testily.

"It means what it means," Keith pronounced. Seabrook and Sharp nodded.

"Can we go back to what we were discussing? I don't understand what any of you are talking about," Jon huffed.

All three chorused "Denial!" before turning back to Hossa, who remained seated and had started eating one of the chocolate-covered biscuits that Jon had laid out beside his tea. Hossa chewed on it, face serene, as he watched the marquess get heckled by his own men.

"What do you know of land laws? Entailment?" Sharp pounced at Hossa, who sipped his tea calmly.

"How about managing English households?" Seabrook pressed.

"What is your opinion on wolves?" Keith peered at him while scratching his chin.

"None. I've not a single idea on how to. They are glorious and majestic and should be allowed to run free, but far away from the estate. Especially during lambing season," Hossa answered without missing a beat.

All three—Sharp, Seabrook, and Keith—hmmm-ed. Hossa raised an eyebrow and hm-ed back.

"Well?" Jon said testily, getting impatient at all the nonsensical humming.

"He's alright," Keith nodded and stretched his hand out to shake Hossa's. "Welcome to Blackburg, Hossa."

* * *

**Mrs. Mary Tighe, poetess and writer of _Psyche_ , after living the last few years of her life quietly as an invalid at her brother-in-law's estate in Woodstock, co. Wicklow, Ireland, has passed away. She was buried in Initioge church, co. Kilkenny. She married Henry Tighe, her first cousin and a member of the Parliament of Ireland for Inistioge, County Kilkenny. Henry Tighe is also a cousin to Ann Kane, whose grand-nephew, Patrick Kane, is a member of the preeminent New York Kanes...**

**(Excerpt from _The Morning Advertiser_ )**

* * *

Hossa was a godsend.

He was efficient, worked tirelessly, and was very self-deprecating. Jon was greatly relieved that Keith, whose work was now halved and only dealt with the ducal family's business instead of the entire estate's, did not begrudge Blackburg another steward. Rather, Keith seemed curiously pleased by it. "We work well," Keith thumped Hossa on the back, when he'd been asked. Hossa nodded stoically.

"He doesn't mind that Keith forgets what day it is sometimes," Sharp explained. "And that he wakes up at noon."

"I work best during afternoons," Keith gave a dismissive wave. "The light makes me think better."

"You are such a strange man," Sharp muttered. Keith only smiled at him wolfishly, showing his full complement of missing teeth.

With Hossa slowly taking over managing the farm and the fields, Jon and his men had more time seeing to other activities in the estate that needed their attention.

"How does a man get to know another better? Like you do, with your wife?" Jon asked Seabrook nonchalantly. They've just finished a successful morning fowling and they were all sat in a small semi-circle, cleaning their flintlocks. Juliette sat panting beside them, eyes trained on the pheasants that were bound together by their feet, the fruits of the morning's labor.

"If this is about your husband…" Seabrook wagged the bore brush threateningly at Jon.

"Why don't you ask me how I _courted_ my wife?" Sharp butted in, back from thanking the beaters and sending them their way with a partridge or two for their trouble.

"Why does Jon need to court him? They're already married," Keith puzzled, pausing from swabbing the barrels.

Jon huffed. "No one's _courting_ anyone. It's just a strange thing. I knew nothing of my husband before we were married," he muttered. "And I want to set that to rights. "

" _Courting,_ " Seabrook grimaced.

"A dinner would be a good start," Keith said sagely. "With just the two of you. A course of tender beef, a bottle of excellent vintage, candlelight—"

Jon approved of the idea. "That's an excellent plan, Duncan. I'll ask Paul if—"

"—and then you tear each other's clothes off and you tup him over the dinner table."

"That's a _terrible_ plan," Seabrook said darkly.

"I'm sorry Jon, do _you_ want to be the one who's tupped over the dinner table?" Keith corrected himself apologetically, after seeing Jon's outraged face.

"They can tup each other Duncan, they can be like those progressive households in London," Sharp said breezily.

"No one is," Jon looked around, scandalized, before hissing " _tupping anyone_ over the table." Thankfully their only audience was Juliette, who was not interested in any of the speculations of her master's sexual proclivities.

"Yes, there will be no tupping over the dinner table." Sharp waggled his eyebrows. "And I know for a fact that there hasn't been _any_ on the marriage bed either."

All three looked at Jon, Sharp with mischief and Seabrook and Keith with surprise.

"You have _not_?" Seabrook asked incredulously.

"How on earth did you even know that?" Jon was on the defensive. _Damn Sharpy for being a busybody_. Jon wondered which poor fool at the inn or among Patrick's men Sharp had ensnared to tattle about the lack of nightly connubial activities in their bedroom. Probably Hayden, with them being both barristers and all that.

"Well, you _are_ living in the rented rooms of an inn," Keith piped up, while helping Seabrook clean up their impromptu camp. "Not quite the scene for marital domesticity, nor the most romantic. Which begs the question—why haven't you started looking for property and making arrangements for your husband? He's not a two-penny Fleet Street harlot that you can keep upstairs in a tavern forever, Jonny."

"It's no one's business what happens in their room," Seabrook said, thumping Sharp on the arm with a small twig that he'd been using to prod their small fire. "Nor is it our business," he continued, thwacking the twig on top of Keith's head, and ignoring the glare sent his way, "where Jon and Patrick choose to live." A final scowl was directed at everyone.

After cleaning up their camp, they rode back to the village, the scenery of Blackburg stretching before them. The circuitous route took them up a hill that gave an excellent view of Hawke House.

Jon loved how beautiful it looked in the distance, like a child's fairy-tale castle. The view from his horse showed the expansive windows of the bedrooms on the second floor. Jon remembered those rooms from his childhood, before he and his family left it for the smaller, and more practical, Gilbert Hall. Patrick would have felt right at home in Hawke House during its prime—its high ceilings and wide hallways, walls papered in silk, its fat-cheeked cherubs and gilded cornices, the marble gleaming from seemingly endless corridors. It was a pity that they'd left it to fall into ruin. Had they had the money for its upkeep, they would still be living in it, as generations of Toewses had done. Jon would have loved for him and Patrick to sleep in the red-and-gold bedroom, the room in Hawke House exclusively reserved for the duke's heir—

Jon suddenly stopped, Sharp nearly colliding with him from behind.

"You alright there, Jon," Sharp called out in concern from his horse.

Wait.

He _did_ have money.

"I have money," Jon said aloud.

Seabrook and Keith exchanged perplexed looks.

"Yes, Jon." Sharp rolled his eyes heavenward. "I've _told_ you about this. That's why you _married_ Patrick, if you recall."

"I have money," Jon repeated amazed. It was stupid of him to not have thought of it earlier, but the realization was _electrifying_. "And I can..." He felt he couldn't breathe, the joy constricting his chest. "I can have Hawke House back."

* * *

**The King, Eyesight failing and in tremendous Pain, has now become dangerously Ill and His Doctors have declared Him incapable of Rule. The King himself recognizes this, and that the Prince of Wales should now act as Regent in His stead. The Prince, last night, was seen to be visited by Baron Savard and by Comte d'Quenneville, possibly to advise him as they had advised his Royal Father...**

**(Excerpt from _The London Packet_ )**

* * *

Before traversing the Channel back to England from his travels, Patrick met a tall, affable man that he shared a shop awning with while escaping the pouring rain in Flanders.

As people fled the street and children played in puddles around them, the man explained that he was traveling alone. He'd left home because he'd developed a taste for grander things and had been moving from city to city, looking at the interiors of cathedrals and the fine furniture from the fabled workshops of the French royal ébéniste, Jean-Henri Riesener. He'd introduced himself in softly-accented English as Niklas, son of the famous Hjalmar, the court-appointed woodworker for the regent Charles, who was then the Duke of Södermanland and now Charles XIII of Sweden.

Patrick, while absently noting the tools that were wrapped in thick cloth and strapped to the side of Nicklas' rucksack, misheard the man's name. Shaking his hand, he said cheerfully, "Pleased to be of your acquaintance, Hammer."

So it was to Patrick's complete delight that he once again saw the same rucksack on the floor near the inn's door, the tools still bound carefully and strapped to its side. There were other chests too, and some crates that looked like they were full of workmen's tools.

"Has someone asked for me?" Patrick questioned.

Paul stopped from where he was wiping down one of the tables and looked up. "Yes my lord, he's with the marquess." He pointed towards the parlor, where Jon's voice could be heard.

"Hammer!" Patrick walked in, throwing up his arms in welcome. The men in the room looked up. "Herr Kane!" one of the men said, overjoyed. "Thank you for writing to me, it's good to see you again."

The bearded man sitting across Jon looked at both of them confusedly. "I didn't know that Hammer knew Lord Patrick."

"Neither did I," Jon was looking at both Patrick and Nicklas, who were talking animatedly with each other. He was amazed and also a little bit confused, as to how Patrick, who'd always said that he mostly kept to his men, seemed to know every other man in London as well as a dizzying number of continentals that stepped foot on English soil.

"I've brought a friend with me," Hammer said, waving his friend over. The man had a pleasant bearded face, with eyes that turned into cheerful half-moons when he smiled.

"A pleasure to meet you, milord." He shook Patrick's hand briskly. "Crawford, stonemason," he said, bobbing his head. "But you may call me Crow, if it pleases you."

"Well, Mr. Crow," Patrick nodded back, smiling. "A pleasure to meet you. Are you also looking for work?"

"Yes, milord," Crow bobbed his again, smiling. "Me and Hammer will try to find a roof in the village. Once we're settled, maybe we'll go ask around to see if there's any work around Blackburg or the surrounding villages."

There was very little building that needed to be done in Blackburg. But Hammer had written about the difficulties of finding work in the bigger towns and Patrick, having read about the crises in finding employment and the unrest from agitated workers up and down England, would rather have them here than participate in dangerous riots. He resolved to find work for them later, maybe asking Keith or Hossa if they had buildings or structures that needed to be repaired.

Jon, as if divining Patrick's thoughts, said "My cottage needs some work, actually." He looked at Patrick, nodding. Patrick smiled gratefully. "Perhaps you could stay there, while you go about the repairs."

"That's more than generous, Lord Toews," Hammer spoke, he and Crow bowing their heads in thanks.

"I can ask Paul to show you where it is, as I need to attend to something else." Jon was already patting down his coat pockets to check for the cottage key. Unable to find it, he said "I'll get the key for you, so you could be on your way."

Both men thanked him again, and Jon went upstairs, followed by Patrick.

"Thank you for doing that Jon," Patrick said as they climbed up the stairs. "I'll also ask Keith and Hossa if they have work for them. The work in the village might be a step down for Hammer and if I'm correct, since Crow has been working with him, for Crow as well, but it's better than nothing."

"I know that Crow said he's a stonemason, but what, exactly, does Hammer do?" Jon was going through his other coat, still looking for the cottage key. When his other coat proved fruitless, he checked the side table beside their bed, where he found it under a water pitcher.

Patrick was putting up the coat Jon had discarded on the floor in his search for the cottage key. "He's a woodworker, trained in assembling fine furniture as well as the architecture of manor houses." Patrick straightened the lapels and dusted it down. "If my guess is correct, Crow might've been working with him on marble stonework, so it'll be such a shame that men of their talents wouldn't find any employment."

Jon, for reasons that Patrick couldn't fathom, was now looking at him keenly from the doorway. "Manors, you say?"

Patrick nodded, "Yes, why? Do you think your parents need work done in Gilbert Hall?"

"No," Jon smiled broadly, before chucking him on the chin and going down the stairs, leaving a blushing and confused Patrick in his wake. _But i'd like to have them work on something else._

* * *

**Jonny,**

**Congratulations, you old Dog. My Schoolfellows have been asking me Questions to send as news to their Brothers and Sisters in London. You've made quite a stir, with these wild Stories of falling in love and wooing Mr Kane and getting married in St George's. Didn't know that you had it in you, you sly Goat. I am now on tenterhooks to come Home and see this Man who turned my Brother's head. I heard he's quite a Catch. Of some questionable Fashion, I've also heard, with those Coats, but still a Catch.**

**I'll see you all soon. Give my love to Maman and Papa.**

**D**

* * *

Patrick, for the past few weeks, had been writing vigorously to a lot of his friends and acquaintances in London on Blackburg's woes, remarking especially on a need for a farrier who'd help with the estate's horses.

Lord Colliton, someone who Patrick had shared a common interest with on mathematical treatises, had been sympathetic and sent one of his men, Bickell, who'd just recently gotten his parchment from the Veterinary College of London.

Bickell had arrived quietly at Blackburg with only a small rucksack for his clothes. With still no spare rooms at the inn and no vacant houses in the village, Jon had once again offered up his cottage, where Hammer and Crow were both working and currently residing.

While being introduced to the two, Bickell felt a sudden heavy weight nudge him forward from behind his knee, nearly toppling him forward. Turning to look, that was when Bickell, who'd always looked at the Earl of Camden's mastiffs with fondness, fell in love with Juliette.

"Look at this sweet lady," Bickell said, kneeling down to where Juliette was blinking happily at him, panting from a belly full of puppies. He scratched her ears and soothed down her side, feeling around carefully, Juliette looking at him with liquid eyes. "I see now, poor thing. It'll be soon now, isn't it my love?" To Jon, "She'll have more than half a dozen my lord, and she's ready for them to be out."

Jon had been relieved, looking at Bickell. Not just for the village gaining a new farrier, but for Juliette's sake. He'd seen the lambs being birthed of course, and the biology remained the same, but he'd been dreadfully nervous about Juliette, who'd either been lethargic or whined anxiously at the smallest discomfort.

That same night, Juliette gave birth to ten, the tenth a tiny runt who'd been hidden by his other siblings, only noticed by Jon when he'd seen a small paw peeking out from the tangle of squirming, wet newborn puppies.

"We'll call you Peeksy, then," Jon had whispered to the tiny mewling pup, as he and Bickell had finished rubbing them and drying them with rags to be placed near Juliette to suckle. "Little Peeksy, as we'd like to call you, from now on."

Everyone in the village was delighted, and lots were drawn on who could get puppies from Juliette's litter.

"And how about that, the little thing," Patrick pointed, when he'd seen the litter for himself. He'd given Juliette a congratulatory pat before wrinkling his nose from the smell of birth. "Has anyone asked for it?" Little Peeksy was half the size of his siblings, and had to fight hard to suckle from his mother's teat.

" _He_ , and you might not want to get him, my lord, poor Little Peeksy's small," Bickell said sadly.

Patrick looked at how the puppy smacked his toothless mouth and squirmed tenaciously between his brothers and sisters. Little Peeksy might be small, but he fought to live. This struck a chord in Patrick, who'd always been the smallest child among his playfellows. "I'll have him."

Jon looked at him sideways. "I've never seen you with any love for dogs."

Patrick sniffed, affronted. "I don't _hate_ Juliette."

"That's not what I meant."

"I won't be cruel. He'll be well-cared for," Patrick assured him, patting his husband's arm. Jon, who'd seen Patrick blithely ignore a basket full of fat, wiggling puppies, remained unconvinced.

Patrick smiled as he ran a finger over Peeksy's soft nose. _Silly Jon,_ Patrick thought. He'd show him. How difficult would taking care of a puppy be? He'll be his new friend, but better. One who wouldn't make disparaging comments about his hair, like Hayden did.

Peeksy yawned and flopped over to his back, showing his pudgy tummy. _It'll be like a small child, but with four feet,_ Patrick supposed, and he knew that, among his many talents, he was very good with children. He'd been with his sisters since they were in the cradle, and he'd seen Kitty grow up too. He'd make an excellent parent, Patrick sighed wistfully. If he and Jon would ever have them.

 _A pity, then_ , Patrick thought sadly as he looked at Jon, the man who married for him for his wealth and not for his love, _that they might never know._


	3. a love most inconvenient

* * *

**Pants of different lengths and snugness are still in Vogue this Season. Breeches—knee-length and worn with Stockings—might be considered by Some as old-fashioned, but are still de rigeur at Almack's. Pantaloons, extending to the mid calf or below, should be tight-fitting, and paired with highly-polished tall boots. Trousers, sometimes worn with Braces, have now become popular with Society, even though it has always been a Clothing staple of the Working Classes. The outrageously tight Inexpressibles—Leggings that left little to the imagination—like those worn by the scandalous Mr. Kane at Lady Jersey's gala, showed everyone that, while a man might be small in stature…**

**And speaking of scandalous, one Wit pointed out that, after seeing Lord Toews wearing Buckskins made from deerskin around London, that he'd seen the largesse of Blackburg-Hawke's assets...**

**(Excerpt from _Ackermann's Repository of Arts, Literature, Commerce, Manufactures, Fashion and Politics_ )**

* * *

_May 1810, England_

_Spring_

The days rolled by peacefully with the newcomers fitting in well in Blackburg. Hossa was now running the farm and the fields, Bickell went about with his work with the farm's animals—all the while daydreaming of rebuilding the ducal kennels with the remainder of Juliette's litter—and even Hammer and Crow had found themselves with work, though they were close-mouthed when asked by Bickell where they went every day, returning home with their hair dusty and their clothes full of cobwebs.

Spurred by the news that work can be found in Blackburg, men started to arrive. They came alone or with their families, in wagons and carts, on horses or in carriages, and some even on foot. Most of them came with letters of introduction from Patrick, and then later, with letters from Hossa, Bickell, Hammer, or Crow. Some even came with references from Patrick's friends from London.

"There's an Anisimov that came the other day." Seabrook was looking over Jon's shoulder where he was huddled with Keith and Hossa. "He mentioned that he came at the behest of some count or the other."

"Yes, he's accounted for." Jon remembered Patrick reminding him a few days earlier. _Something about a count called... Pancarré? Or Panettone? Panini?_ "Hossa will find work for him."

"Kruger, Stalberg, Gustaffson, two Forsbergs—no that's not right, there's a Forsberg and a Fors _ling_ ," Keith muttered as he went through the roll of names that had come for work, urged on by Hammer. Some stonecutters and masons had arrived with them too, and Keith had noted that they could work with Crow—Colin, a genial man who was apprenticed to a cheerful plasterer called Darling, and a quiet man called Ward. There was also a Finnish master and apprentice pair whose names Jon had stumbled with, before the older of the two had helpfully said, in halting English, that the marquess could refer to them simply as Antti and Teuvo.

Jon saw to more timber for new houses as their little village grew. Mills and smithys opened their doors, and market stalls came up. For the first time in years, the sleepy little town of Blackburg was slowly waking up to the sound of people and industry.

Through this, Patrick continued to write notes and letters tirelessly to his friends and acquaintances in London asking for help and advice, or penned back responses to those looking for work, much to the fond amusement of Jon.

"Leave that for tomorrow and come to bed." Jon was slowly dozing off, Peeksy a small curled lump on his chest. Patrick had kept sneaking the puppy in his room, delighted at how the small puppy waddled about, teetering on his tiny feet and noisily lapping the milk from the saucer that Patrick placed on the floor.

"I'm just finishing this letter to my friend. I'll be right over soon." The nib of Patrick's pen made a series of noisy scratches before he tapped one last dot with a flourish. "There, all done." Patrick put his pen down and stretched, standing up from his desk and shuffling tiredly to bed.

"Which of your numerous friends or acquaintances were you writing to?" Jon carefully lifted Peeksy from his chest and placed him on the heap of cotton blankets that Kitty had prepared for him whenever Patrick forgot to bring him back to Juliette.

Patrick yawned, his head unconsciously inching closer to Jon's. "One of my close friends in London. He's been promising to visit me for weeks but he still hasn't come and he hasn't answered my letters. I'm getting worried," Patrick frowned.

Jon reached out and gently wiped his thumb down the middle of Patrick's furrowed brow. "Don't. I'm sure your friend's alright."

"You won't mind, would you?" Patrick was falling asleep, his voice getting fainter and softer. "If my friend visits?"

"Of course not," Jon smiled. Patrick's friends have been a welcome help in Blackburg—the farm ran more efficiently thanks to Hossa, all the animals were kept healthy under Bickell's watchful eye, and Crow and Hammer were already working stealthily at Jon's behest, their secret work coming along wonderfully.

Jon wouldn't begrudge Patrick any visit from his friends—any friend of Patrick's was more than welcome in Blackburg.

* * *

**Lord Bowman,**

**This letter comes through from the hands of Captain Lee of the _Islander_. **

**We are still doing our best to bring Patrick Home. Father works ceaselessly and has even spoken to Tom and Harry's Families. They refuse to be swayed, but Father persists. He and my Husband have pinned our Family's Hopes on Patrick, and They will not rest until Patrick returns to fulfill His duties as Heir.**

**Please keep silent for now. Do not tell Patrick. We do not want Him to Hope.**

**DK**

* * *

Jon gritted his teeth. He was wrong—any family, friend, distant relative, and acquaintance of Patrick's was welcome, _except_ for those that were urbane, witty, and handsome Russian counts.

Like the one sitting in front of him and flirting atrociously with his husband.

The morning started innocuously enough. They were having their breakfast in the parlor when a strange dark blue carriage with white spoked wheels and a crest painted in crimson on its doors, pulled by a team of eight sleek Arabian stallions, rode noisily up the inn's driveway.

Kitty, craning his neck to see from his seat near the window, gasped in delight. "Patty, it's—"

Patrick was already out the door, running full tilt to throw himself in the waiting embrace of a man with curling blond hair and laughing blue eyes. After releasing himself from Patrick's embrace, the man cupped his face with both hands, before delightedly and noisily kissing Patrick on both cheeks.

Jon stared at them, confused, before coughing pointedly in annoyance.

Both turned to look at him, Patrick stepping back, embarrassed. "Oh, Jon, I'm sorry, this is," Patrick beamed at the man again, "this is—"

"Count Artemi Sergeyevich Panarin," the man bowed with a flourish, his English thick with the flat vowels and consonants of the Saint Petersburg court. "A humble man who is a good friend to your dear husband," he winked at Patrick, who laughed. Jon frowned.

"Jonathan, Lord Toews, Marquess of Blackburg-Hawke, son and heir of the Duke of Blackburg-Hawke," he said, tone frosty and stepping between Patrick and the new arrival. He extended his hand, imperious and every inch the son of a duke. The count shook his hand enthusiastically.

"I'd heard that my dear Petya had married, and I'd wanted to see him and give my well-wishes and gifts in the flesh." The count smiled at Patrick fondly, calling him by the closest Russian diminutive for his name. "The news all over London came as a surprise to me, as I'd never heard him mention you at all." Panarin looked at Jon, assessing. Jon was only wearing a plain linen shirt and cotton trousers and, in comparison to Panarin's velvet coat, richly-embroidered vest and fine muslin jabot, he looked very rural and unprepossessing. Jon straightened at Panarin's stare, unconsciously summoning the proud bearing of his patrician roots, and looked back haughtily.

Patrick looked flustered. "Jon and I, we—"

"—kept it a secret. We saw no need to tell anyone about us." Jon looked loftily at Panarin. "Didn't we, my love?"

"What?" Patrick looked at him, momentarily confused as to who Jon was referring to. " _Who?_ "

In the background, Sharp, who was arriving at the inn for some business with Jon, had joined Hayden, Hartman, and Kitty, watching the scene unfold in front of them.

"When I said that I wanted a little bit of entertainment in poor boring little Blackburg," Sharp said engrossed, as Jon glowered jealously at Patrick and his friend. "I didn't expect it to be this kind."

* * *

**As a result of Sweden's defeat in the Finnish War and the Pomeranian War, and following the Treaty of Fredrikshamn and Treaty of Paris, Sweden has declared war on England. It remains curiously to be a bloodless war, however, as it has not hindered England in stationing ships at Hanö and trading with the Baltic states. Generallöjtnant Landeskog was even seen walking around Hanö with Colonel Barrie...**

**(Excerpt from _The Evening Mail_ )**

* * *

Inside the inn Jon bade the count to sit on the far side of the table, away from where he and Patrick were sitting. To Jon's very obvious displeasure, Patrick moved his seat so he could sit beside Panarin on the other side, where he proceeded to talk animatedly with his friend.

"Patrick," Hartman whispered as he passed by, a maid trailing behind him with a tray so he could set down plates of scones and tea for everyone. "Perhaps the count would like to speak with the others?" He stared pointedly at where Jon and Sharp were seated at the other end of the table. Hayden and Kitty had excused themselves earlier, preferring to sit unobtrusively in the chairs in the corner of the room, so that they could pretend to work while observing the tableau in front of them. Sharp, of course, chose to remain. He'd always preferred sitting in front of the stage in the theaters.

Patrick looked up, distracted from where Panarin was telling him of gossip from London. "Of course, where are my manners. Temya?" Patrick helped him with his chair and they both moved two seats down, to where Jon and Sharp were seated. "Thank you my dear Petya," the count smiled. Patrick beamed.

"You two are such sweet friends," Sharp said, smiling at them, bright teeth on display. "You even have fond little names for each other."

"Well, he can't keep calling me 'Count Panarin' now, can he? I'm called Temya by all my friends and what is Petya if not my _closest_ friend." The count grinned and reached over to bop Patrick teasingly on his nose.

Jon scowled beside them and inched his seat closer to Patrick. "Patrick calls me 'Jon'," he declared loudly, to no one in particular. Everyone looked at him oddly.

When they were both seated again, Panarin on Patrick's right and Jon on his left at the head of the table with Sharp beside him, who asked, "So, what brings you to humble little Blackburg?" He started with the pleasantries, as none were forthcoming from Jon, who had now turned silent and was furiously sawing at his leg of beef.

"Patrick, of course," Panarin said, matter-of-fact. "Imagine my surprise when I went back to London and heard the news!"

"The marriage was very, ah, _sudden_ ," Patrick excused.

"I heard." The count placed his hand on Patrick's arm worriedly. "Poor Petya, were your clothes ready? Did someone prepare a wedding breakfast? How about your affairs in London?"

"Those were taken care of," Patrick assured him. "Jon was—"

"—able to help his darling sweet love put all his affairs in order," Jon said, placing his own hand on Patrick's other arm and looking at Panarin challengingly.

On the other side of the room, Hayden choked on a petit-four. _Darling sweet love?_ Kitty mouthed at Hartman silently, while patting a wheezing Hayden on the back. Hartman shrugged.

"Yes," Jon continued snottily. "The wedding was perfect. My dearest looked like an angel and St. Martin's was beautiful—"

" _St. Martin's_?" Panarin interrupted, raising a puzzled eyebrow. "Everyone in London said it was in St. George's in Hanover Square."

"Of course, what Jon meant _was_ St. George's." Patrick gave Jon a warning eye, before smiling sweetly back at Panarin. Jon huffed.

"It was a spring wedding—April," Patrick smoothed the conversation over. "And it was very private, with only us and Lord Bowman."

Panarin looked confused again. "Are you sure? That this was in… April?"

"Yes…?" Patrick's smile froze. Jon stopped in the middle of moodily placing cutlets on Patrick's plate to whisper _March_ frantically.

"I read it was in March." Panarin was looking increasingly confused. Jokingly, he said, "Petya, are you _sure_ you're married or is this nothing but some elaborate pretense?" He laughed loudly, slapping his hand on the table. He wagged his finger at them, tsk-ing. "If people find out, that'd be quite the scandal."

Patrick and Jon stopped what they were doing and looked at each other, eyes widened in panic.

"I'm sorry Temya, but I just need to talk to Jon—" Patrick stood up.

"Apologies, Count Panarin, I wish to speak with Patrick—" Jon's seat clattered backwards.

"— _alone_ ," before following each other hurriedly up to their bedroom.

Panarin looked around the room, perplexed. "Did I say something wrong?"

Hayden sipped his tea obnoxiously and settled deeper in his seat.

* * *

"Jon," Patrick whispered, closing the door softly behind him. "We have to be more careful on what we say to Temya. Lord Bowman has been very adamant that no one suspects anything."

"I'm not the one who got the month of our wedding wrong," Jon groused. It was their _wedding_. He felt that Patrick should have known that better. Jon didn't know why it annoyed him so.

"And you have to be on your best behavior around Temya. He's the _tsar's godson_ —"

"Oh, _fine_ ," Jon grumbled. "But you have to remember when we were married at least." Jon was still aggrieved over that small point. He didn't know why, but Jon remembered everything about Patrick that night—from his dark blue great coat to the gold rings on his fingers—yet Patrick couldn't even remember the _month_ of their wedding.

"Calling me those sweet names is the right way to go about it, if we have to convince Temya," Patrick schemed, hands on his hips. He hummed thoughtfully and looked at Jon. "Is it alright if I do that too?"

Jon nodded, a little bit too quickly. "It'll be very convincing." A flash of inspiration came across Jon's face. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

"If we have to appear married and very much in love..." Jon held his palm open and took Patrick's hand to place it over his own. He closed his hand over Patrick's, noticing how small it looked against his. Patrick's hands were not, by any means, dainty. They were blunt and utilitarian, a network of blue veins and a smattering of fine blond hair covering the back. But Jon's own hands, broad and square, dwarfed Patrick's, and it made him feel strange that his hand engulfed Patrick's like so.

Patrick was still for a moment before adjusting their hands so that their fingers would be intertwined more naturally.

"Alright," Patrick nodded. He flexed his fingers, threading them between Jon's. A ruddy color had crept onto his cheekbones.

Must be the heat of their rooms, Jon thought. "We can do this. We won't let the count suspect a thing." He squeezed Patrick's hand in reassurance and solidarity. "Let's go back, my love, it's too stuffy in here."

Patrick smiled, cheeks still faintly red. "After you, my darling."

* * *

The resumed sitting on the table, but their own meals were forgotten, Jon choosing to hold Patrick's hand throughout, their fingers twined between each other over the tablecloth. Sharp gave Hayden and Kitty a look from across the room while Hartman delicately raised an eyebrow while looking at Jon and Patrick's hands when the two came down from the upstairs bedrooms.

Panarin sighed wistfully, but said nothing, continuing on with his meal. He regaled Patrick with the news from London and gossip from his short trip to the east.

"Signor Foligno was also there, of course, and everyone knew that he and Prince Bobrovsky were lovers but they still went on, pretending otherwise," Panarin chattered on, Patrick listening with only half an ear. Jon's hand felt warm on his own, and the unconscious soothing movement of the pad of Jon's thumb over the back of his hand was making him distracted.

"I met one of your husband's admirers in the prince's estate." Panarin tapped his fork gently on the edge of his plate, as if trying to remember. "Yes, a quiet young man who was quite enamored of your husband. He spoke of Lord Toews fondly on the few times that they've met."

Patrick turned sideways to look at Jon, eyebrow raised. " _Enamored_ , you say?"

"Was it young Mr. Patrick?" Sharp asked, intrigued. "Or is it the Italian opera actress, little Signorina Polizzi?"

"No, he stayed at the Prince's estate for a short time. A young man by the name of..." Panarin reached over for a bunch of grapes, noisily crunching on them before recalling, "...Brandon, yes. Brandon."

Patrick's eyebrow rose higher. "You didn't tell me that you're quite the catch, _my love_ ," he said, miffed, squeezing Jon's hand a little bit too tightly.

Jon raised Patrick's hand to his lips, eyes deliberately languid, and gave an airy kiss just above his knuckles. "A catch I may be, but no one has caught me but you, my radiant angel."

Someone in the room stifled a snort. Sharp's face was unnaturally contorted to a smile of polite disinterest, but looked as if he was seconds away from braying with laughter.

Panarin looked at both of them fondly. "So the rumors are true—you both _are_ madly in love with each other."

Patrick took back his hand, his skin tingling from where Jon had placed a feather-soft kiss. He smiled charmingly at Panarin, while trying to ignore the fluttering feeling within. "Was there ever any doubt?"

* * *

**The Dardanelles Treaty of Peace, Commerce, and Secret Alliance, which ended the Anglo-Turkish War, has restored extensive British commercial and legal Privileges in the Empire. England has promised to protect the Integrity of the Ottoman Empire against Naval Threats, both with its own Fleet and through Weapons Supplies to Constantinople. Among those captured was the notorious Swedish Pirate, Erik Sven Gunnar Karlsson, who plied the Hellespont with his Ship, the _Red Statesman_ , following in the Footsteps of Lars Gathenhielm and Gustav Adolf Skytte of Duderhoff... **

**(Excerpt from the _Commercial Journal_ )**

* * *

After breakfast, Patrick asked the count if he would like a quick ride through some parts of the estate.

Panarin agreed. "I've always wanted to see your husband's famed Blackburg, with its rumored acres of breathtaking land." He motioned for his coachman to unhitch a carriage horse, while the other prepared the light saddle that was hidden under the carriage seats. "Let's see if it's more beautiful than Peterhof or Tsarskoye Selo."

"Blackburg won't ever compare with the magnificence of your godfather's estates, Temya," Patrick objected. Seeing Jon frown while checking the straps of his horse, Patrick gave a playful smile. "But I'm proud to say that our Blackburg comes as a very close second." Jon grinned back, smug.

They rode across Blackburg, Panarin nodding his approval at the fields and orchards now slowly blooming with grain and fruit, thanks to the watchful ministrations of Hossa. Panarin chatted with Patrick while Jon rode close beside him, occasionally moving his horse closer to lay a gentle hand on Patrick's arm or elbow. After a quick circuit of the estate, they turned their horses back when the sun slowly started descending down the hills.

"Is that the ducal palace?" Panarin squinted in the distance, while he held his hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

"We don't call them palaces out here in the English countryside, Temya," Patrick corrected. "That's Hawke House, the Toews ancestral seat."

"And why do you and your husband not live in it, Petya?" Panarin tilted his head curiously. The count was surprised to find out that Patrick and his men, as well as Jon, were staying at the Four Feathers indefinitely. The inn was not a hovel—though small and not having everyday conveniences such as indoor plumbing or bathing rooms—it was still well-kept and clean. The innkeeper, Paul, kept everything spotless, and there was no lack of steaming food in the dining room nor hot water for their baths. But Panarin had seen his friend sleep in a gilded bed that had given birth to a Medici and the thought of Patrick willingly _choosing_ to sleep in a simple wooden four-poster was baffling to him. The look on his face told that he disapproved, but was too polite to point it out. "Is the heir not allowed to live in the ducal seat with his parents?"

"No one lives there Temya. The duke and duchess reside in Gilbert Hall, down the road," Patrick explained. "Me and Jon stay at the inn while we're still working out our living arrangements."

"Does it take months for that to be decided here in the English countryside?" Panarin asked, puzzled. "Or will your husband build you a house? There isn't a lack of land around Blackburg."

Jon was about to open his mouth but Patrick explained hastily, "We've decided to keep it as is while Jon is busy with the coming harvest. Maybe we'll live in London, and I'll let Jon have a taste of life in town."

"London would be best, rather than some room in an inn," Panarin advised. "It's just not right, Petya, for you to live in such a shabby state."

Jon simmered beside them, Panarin's comments nagging his insides. He'd been allotting a special portion of his day for the past few weeks with Hammer and Crow, going through carefully drawn plans in vellum and looking at books and manuals. Patrick was right—both men's talents were better served than just repairing barns and houses. Hammer showed him the furniture that could once again fill the rooms of Hawke House, and the wood that would go into restoring the floors and bannisters. Crow showed him sample casts of the friezes that would be adorning the walls, and the kinds of marble that would be laid down in the grand foyer.

"We work quick milord," Crow smiled, his eyes crinkling and nearly disappearing into the thick beard that he'd started sporting.

Hammer agreed. "We have some men, but if we get more, we could be done right around autumn."

That would mean that Hawke House would be finished just in time for the harvest and, by the looks of it, Blackburg's first successful harvest in decades.

"Start with the innermost rooms and work your way outwards. Keep this quiet for now," Jon instructed.

"And when will the husband know?" Crow had been told, along with Hammer, to say nothing to Patrick or to those that were not working with them on Hawke House.

Jon laughed, clapping them both on the back and saying his goodbyes. "Soon."

He wanted so badly to tell Patrick about his plans but held his tongue. It wouldn't do any good to ruin his surprise.

* * *

**As Chancellor, Sir Spencer Perceval continues to find the funds to Finance Wellington's Campaign in the Iberian Peninsula. Master-General of the Ordnance Lord Bettman continues to oppose this...**

**(Excerpt from the _St. James Chronicle_ )**

* * *

They came back to the inn at nearly dusk, Panarin's carriage already set for his departure. Jon had said his perfunctory good byes and was now leading the horses to the side, to make room for Panarin's coachmen to maneuver around the small driveway.

"Father says the tsar is planning something with his new alliances," Panarin whispered to Patrick in a hushed tone while standing in front of his carriage and getting ready for the ride back to London. "He wants me to be in court when this happens. I leave for St. Petersburg soon." One of the coachmen gave Panarin his gloves and he tugged them on, carefully smoothing them over his palms and fingers. Another coachman handed him a gold-tipped cane once he was done. "You and your husband must come to London for my farewell dinner. It'll just be me and a few acquaintances who'll accompany me back to Russia."

Patrick hesitated, smile wilting. Though Blackburg was far from the conveniences and entertainments of London, it offered a respite from the gossip and vicious jealousies that seemed to pervade the life of the idle rich in town. Patrick was scorned and adored in equal measure because of his status as an outsider whose family dealt in the most vulgar of all sources of wealth—trade—but was, ironically, connected with one of the most powerful men in England and whose dower wealth was more than a king's ransom. Society watched his every move and were cynical to his graces, but gleeful of his smallest faults, real or imagined. Patrick, after years of navigating and blundering through the tortuously delicate and unvoiced rituals of London's elite set, was surprisingly glad of Jon and Blackburg's artlessness and the simple, albeit boring, life in the country. Going back to London, even for a night, would have him put on the tight-lipped facade that he built to arm himself from rapacious gossip. And his worry wasn't only for him. Jon, except for a few visits, never stayed long enough in London to know the language of close-mouthed smiles and barbed words. If they went and were quizzed about their hasty marriage by people who found enjoyment in digging for scandal, it would be a disaster.

However, seeing Panarin's hopeful face, Patrick hurriedly assured him. "Of course, me and Jon would be more than glad to see you before you go." Being now used to Russian greetings and goodbyes, he kissed Panarin on each cheek before hugging him tightly. A few feet away, Jon's eyebrows squeezed itself into a frown. "When do you leave?"

"Less than a week from now. The dinner will be on the night before the _Aq Bars_ leaves port." Panarin stepped inside his carriage, the coachman closing the door after him. "I will expect you and your husband, solnyshko." He gave Patrick a final wave before thumping his cane on the roof. The head coachman gave a shout and the carriage was off, the lamps hanging from the back of the carriage swaying as it drove into the evening back to London.

Patrick watched the carriage until the lamplights were only a wink in the distance before turning to Jon, face grim. "We need to be ready for London."

* * *

**William Windham, Whig Statesman, died in his Sleep in the presence of his Wife and Doctors. Born the 14th of May 1750 and Died the 4th of June 1810. He was the only son of William Windham, esquire, by Sarah. He married in 1798 Cecilia, third daughter of the late Commodore Forrest. His Earthly Remains will be transported to the Family vault at Felbrigg, with a private funeral to be attended by Personages such as the exiled young Duc d'Dubas, prince étrangers in the Bourbon Court before their Flight from the Terror...**

**(Excerpt from the _General Evening Post_ )**

* * *

Jon didn't really understand Patrick's determination on readying themselves on what he, personally, considered to be a trifling dinner with some of Panarin's friends.

Looking back in hindsight, he shouldn't have said that aloud in front of Patrick, who, after giving him a blistering stare, sat him down for a lecture on Panarin's exalted circle of friends and acquaintances while a dressmaker's assistant swathed him with rolls of fabric.

They'd started the day early, Patrick waking him up the morning after Panarin's visit and marching him downstairs to a parlor filled with a dressmaker, a bootmaker, and their various apprentices. Seabrook stood on one side and brandished a pair of gleaming scissors, while Kitty and Hayden's arms were heavy with the most recent copy of Debrett's _The Correct Peerage of England, Scotland, and Ireland_ , as well as several London journals. Patrick commanded Kitty to read through the recent news in England and the continent while Hayden gave Jon a running commentary on every lord and lady mentioned. Patrick, meanwhile, circled Jon and gave instructions to Seabrook, the dressmaker, and the bootmaker to respectively trim Jon's hair and to measure Jon for clothes and shoes for Panarin's dinner.

"Can we not get anything more… _costly_?" Patrick peered at the dressmaker's fabric while rubbing it between his fingers. The fabric was coarse and had a weave that, upon close inspection, made it look like checkered picnic cloth.

The dressmaker wrung her hands nervously, nearly in tears from the anxiety of being called to suddenly clothe the marquess. "It's the best that we have at such short notice, milord. Perhaps this would suit your tastes better?" The dressmaker gave a watery smile as she unrolled a bolt of cheap velvet. The cloth was dusty from storage and it smelled faintly of hay. Patrick took one look at it and sneezed, prompting the dressmaker to burst into noisy tears.

Patrick sighed. He led her gently to Hartman and motioned silently for him to take the sniffling woman away. Hartman soothed her as he led her to the door. "It's alright, perhaps you could come visit us tomorrow to measure the marquess for some new night shirts and work trousers?"

The bootmaker, however, had better luck. Patrick slid his hand across the rolls of tanned leather that she brought, pleased. "Yes, this is good, perhaps one in brown and one in black?"

"I already have a pair of boots," Jon said, looking up from where he was bent forwards, Seabrook snipping at the hair on his nape. Seabrook tilted Jon's head back down forcefully, overruling him. "No, my lord, he doesn't."

Patrick, recalling the battered brown horror that Jon wore with everything, nodded. "Yes, actually, make that four—two of black and two of brown—in the style of Brummell and d'Orsay. And two pairs of dancing slippers in black velvet as well." The bootmaker jotted everything down on a small piece of paper and after taking the measurements of Jon's legs and feet, left with her apprentice, a few rolls of leather lighter but with pockets several pounds richer.

"We still need clothes for Lord Toews," Hartman said on his return, a wet patch on one shoulder from where the dressmaker had sobbed inconsolably. "Let me see if I can have the poor dressmaker alter some of Hayden's clothes to fit, seeing as they're about the same size and height."

"No, Jon's broader and his arms are thicker. His thighs are larger and his buttocks rounder. They slope higher, too," Patrick said absently from where he was tilting Jon's chin to and fro to inspect Seabrook's work, before catching himself and hastily ending with "Not that I've seen it or have been looking or contemplating or…"

Hartman bit his lip and carefully replied, "Of course." He handed a soft brush to Seabrook who was smirking while dusting off the hair from a red-faced marquess. "We would never suspect you of doing such things."

* * *

**The Preventive Waterguard, led by Chief Officer Thornton, continues to combat Smuggling, its Boat Crews patrolling and defending the Inshore Waters around the Coast each Night. With him is former Privateer, Erik Karlsson, now turned First Officer...**

**(Excerpt from _The English Chronicle_ )**

* * *

To ensure that their blunders with Panarin were not repeated, Jon and Patrick agreed to sit down at dinner and discuss details of each other's lives and their purported whirlwind courtship.

"How many sisters do I have?" Patrick chewed on his slice of beef.

"Three, and you're the oldest." Jon sliced some more pieces of beef for Patrick and went back to his plate, sopping up the gravy with dark bread.

"Good. You have a brother in university." Patrick pushed the plate of eggs closer to Jon.

"Yes, David. And thank you." Jon slid some more eggs into his plate with his knife and fork. "You, on the other hand, didn't go to university. Your father and grandfather hired private tutors and instructors for you."

"My father hated the responsibility of being grandfather's heir. So he groomed me and made sure that I learned from the best tutors that our wealth could get. He was pleased when, even at a young age, I grasped all the knowledge that my tutors gave me like a duck to water." Patrick stopped eating and looked contemplative for a moment. "It's ironic, that the responsibility now once again rests on him. Or maybe he'd put forward one of my sisters to inherit once grandfather has passed away."

Jon saw the yearning and disappointment flit across Patrick's face. The more that he learned about the bits and pieces that made up Patrick's past, the more that Jon felt his heart tug at the circumstances that robbed Patrick of his place with his family. But a secret, very secret, and selfish part of him was glad. Had it been different, Patrick Kane wouldn't have married him or even spared him a second glance. Sometimes he wanted to ask, _but if you could go back, would you?_ But as the days went by in Patrick's company, Jon increasingly found out that he didn't want to know, and he felt the guilt of being happy that Patrick could never go back to America.

Patrick moodily stared into his glass of port. Jon changed the subject.

"Let's talk about how we met." Jon pushed his plate aside, meal finished. "Everyone will want to know how it happened." He'd read the London journals that Kitty had shown him. Jon was amazed at how efficient Lord Bowman was in ensuring that their marriage was seen as credible, and not a strategic move to give Patrick protection as the husband to a member of the peerage of England in the event that the ghosts of his past came knocking for him.

"Everyone already knows." Patrick shook himself from his morose thoughts and forced himself to smile. "We met at a dinner party at Lord Bowman's and I fell for your charms." Patrick grinned and winked at him saucily, throwing a grape in his direction.

Jon caught it with his mouth and laughed. "No, London gossip says that _I_ fell in love with _you_."

Patrick picked another grape from the bowl and peeled the skin off, nonchalantly asking, "And when you're asked, what will you say?"

"Say what?" Jon reached for the bottle of port and filled his and Patrick's glasses.

"When they ask you why." Patrick popped the peeled grape in his mouth and chewed, looking at Jon.

"Why I fell madly for you?"

"Yes."

"I would say…"Jon looked at Patrick. _It wouldn't be a hardship_ , he thought, _to fall helplessly in love with someone such as you_. He could imagine it, seeing Patrick for the first time across a dinner table, soft from the glow of candlelight, eyes coy and cheeks dimpled from laughter.

"I would say that I saw you, golden from the light of the candles, your hair curling around your brow and on your ears," Jon murmured softly. "That I saw you and your lips were red from the wine and your cheeks rosy from the heat of all the candles lit around the room. That your eyes were the clear blue of a cloudless sky in spring. That you laughed and looked at me and it was like… and it was like…"

When Jon was a boy, and after he'd tired of hearing about fairy tales and monsters, his mother would tell him about how she met his father. _Quand je l'ai vu, ça a été le coup de foudre. When I saw him, it was love at first sight._ Like a thunder-clap, his mother explained, sudden and without warning, that moment when love struck you, and you _knew_.

"I knew that, then and there, I loved you."

Jon knew. But his realization wasn't the quick explosion of blinding light in the night sky. His was the slow furl of a flower in early spring, the shy bud of a fruit growing in an orchard in summer. It came in fits and starts—a farewell wave from the inn's window, a shared laugh, a soft hand pressed to his side while in bed in the dark.

But that was not the story that Jon was supposed to tell.

And as Patrick watched Jon say those words from across the small, pitted wooden dining table, his shirt frayed and grimy from the work in the fields, as he listened to the fairytale story that Jon would tell Panarin's dinner guests to bolster Lord Bowman's lies, Patrick suddenly wished for all the world that his wealth be turned to nothing if only those words could be made true.

* * *

**My Dear Marc-André,**

**Congratulations on your Knighthood. We're glad of the Honors bestowed on You, but also saddened that Your new Duties will now take You elsewhere.**

**Our Crosby has received Word that he will go back to St. Petersburg. His previous Tasks have already been accomplished, but Baron Malkin has requested that He take up the Mantle of Diplomacy again. I for one think (and You will agree with Me) that Malkin's requests are also Personal, but that Topic is for a different Time.**

**A farewell Dinner for St. Petersburg has been planned by Count Panarin, and the Russian Set, including Malkin, will be in Attendance. I've heard that Mr. Patrick Kane, or should I say, Lord Patrick Toews, will be there with his husband. Interesting, since Everyone knows Panarin's previous rumored Designs for Mr. Kane's Hand.**

**KL**

* * *

The day of the dinner arrived and Jon was suitably kitted out in a fine linen shirt with a high cravat and a cream-colored brocade vest, topped by a well-tailored coat of dark brown velvet. His trousers matched his waistcoat and his gleaming black boots set his clothes perfectly.

The hapless dressmaker, though woefully lacking in acceptable fabrics, had instead proven herself with her skill with needle and thread. She redeemed herself by magically altering Hayden's clothes to fit Jon, adding a few touches that delighted Patrick, such as self-fabric buttons on Jon's waistcoat and discreet tucks that flattered the marquess' silhouette.

Patrick let out a pleased gasp when he saw Jon, and the marquess puffed his chest proudly as Patrick went around him exclaiming in delight at how dashing he looked in his dinner clothes.

"She needs to be paid double for the sorcery that she did to those trousers so that they could fit the marquess' backside," Hayden whispered sideways to Kitty, who nodded in agreement and whispered back, "I saw the dressmaker's measurements, and I'm telling you Hayden, his back's as wide as a _Hereford cow_."

"Stop tittering around like schoolgirls," Hartman hissed, arms full of Patrick's discarded coats. "Help Patrick finish dressing, or else they'll be late."

Patrick, for the first time, eschewed his brightly-colored clothes and declared that he would wear something that would complement Jon's clothing. After going through several trunks, he was handsomely turned out in a frothy silk shirt with a silver damask waistcoat and dark grey coat, his slim legs encased in tight white trousers and knee-high black boots. This pleased Jon, except for one thing.

"Are you wearing those trousers to dinner?" Jon goggled at Patrick. They were the tightest pair of cotton trousers that he'd ever seen, stretched across Patrick's hips, legs, thighs and… Jon didn't know that someone could be fully clothed yet appear very, very much _naked_.

"Yes, they're all the rage in London." Patrick did a slow turn in front of Jon to show them off. Jon's eye twitched.

"They're quite… they're very…" Jon shouldn't stare. He really shouldn't. But if Patrick didn't stop moving _like so_ , Jon nervously thought, he might just accidentally ruin all of the dressmaker's carefully tucked seams in the front of his trouser plackets. "Are you wearing drawers underneath them?"

"Definitely not, they'd ruin the line of my trousers," Patrick scoffed, turning this way and that in front of the cheval glass. Jon looked faint.

Kitty, taking pity on the marquess, intervened. "Patrick, I think those trousers look terrible with your waistcoat and boots." He quickly found a pair that was more conservatively tailored and, more importantly, wouldn't tax the poor marquess' sanity too much.

Patrick pouted, jutting his lower lip out, and sighed. "Does it? And I thought it looked handsome on me. Lord Alvanley said so."

"No, it doesn't. Lord Alvanley misled you. It makes your legs look knock-kneed," Kitty lied, bald faced, and waved the pair of trousers impatiently at him. The marquess was still staring and it wouldn't be right for Patrick to tempt the poor man through several hours of confinement in a carriage and an entire night's dinner party with all these… jiggling... and bouncing… _things_. "Quickly, or else you and the marquess will be late."

"Oh, alright. Help me out of these boots." Patrick looked put out, but sat down so Kitty could tug his boots from his feet. He huffed in disappointment. He'd been excited to wear them to impress Jon, but it seemed the marquess didn't care much for them. Maybe trim figures were something that were more to the marquess' taste? Patrick wondered. He'd ask Kitty and Hartman to air out his tightest waistcoats.

"That's better," Jon said, looking relieved as he saw him a few minutes later after Patrick had finished changing.

 _Yes,_ Patrick grumped, _those trousers were a failure_. Waistcoats it is, then.

* * *

**With England still at war with France, the Military Style has now crept into Ladies' Fashion. Styles such as regimental tape Lacings, and silver Epaulettes reminiscent of those used by Viscount Wellington, the late Lieutenant-General Sir John Moore, as well as the young Bucks that defend the Capital such as the likes of Lieutenants Oshie and Wilson...**

**(Excerpt from _La Belle Assembleé_ )**

* * *

The ride to Panarin's was uneventful and Patrick fell asleep throughout most of it. He woke up with his cheek on Jon's shoulder, the marquess gently shaking him awake. He blinked, disoriented from sleep.

"We're here, my love." Jon reached out to fix Patrick's cravat and tug his coat in place from where it had slid off from one shoulder.

Patrick nodded, yawning. Outside their carriage, footmen held lanterns while helping guests alight and ushered them to the main door where Panarin, as host, was standing to greet them.

"My hair?" Patrick asked, stretching out his legs from their cramped position.

"Perfect, as it always is." Jon smiled at him. He was self-consciously tugging his waistcoat down to remove the creases.

"You look fine, Jon." Patrick smoothed Jon's waistcoat, checking the buttons. "I'll be the envy of every man and woman tonight."

Jon looked down, bashful but pleased. Outside, a footman knocked on their carriage door discreetly. "Don't forget to call me darling," he whispered before opening the door and stepping out, extending his own hand to help Patrick alight from the carriage.

 _Darling_. Of course. Patrick had to remember to call Jon by sweet endearments throughout the dinner. _It's a good thing that Jon never forgets,_ Patrick thought gratefully, _it makes everything much more convincing._

And if Jon sometimes called him his dearest or his love even when it was just the two of them, when there was no one present to show off for, Patrick resolutely tried not to think too much into it.

* * *

**Sir,**

**I've heard News from my good Friend in Rockford that Work can be found in Blackburg. I'd like to humbly ask if there can be Work spared for a Man of my Qualifications. Along with this Letter are my References.**

**Yours respectfully,**

**D Strome**

* * *

It was an intimate dinner of less than twenty, composed mostly of Panarin's fellow Russian expatriates who would be travelling back with him to St. Petersburg. Patrick took stock of the people in the room and was relieved that there were no wits or pundits such as the likes of Messers Lazarus and McGuire, who'd been known to contribute avidly to the London gossip sheets. _Maybe it'll be just a quiet evening after all,_ Patrick thought, and that perhaps he worried for nothing.

Shortly after welcoming them, the count took Jon and Patrick around the drawing room and introduced them to his friends. "General-feldmarshal Alexander Mikhailovich Ovechkin, of the Imperial Russian Army." A large man with salt-and-pepper hair smiled, teeth missing, and clicked his heels before bowing grandly. He was surrounded by men in Imperial military uniforms, their ranks gleaming on their shoulders and their epaulettes twinkling in the candlelight. "Polkovnik Yevgeny Yevgenyevich Kuznetsov, Polkovnik Dmitry Vladimirovich Orlov" Both men also clicked their heels smartly, before turning back to their conversation with Ovechkin. Panarin moved Jon and Patrick along. "His aide-de-camp, Överste Nicklas Bäckström, and the young man beside him is Överste-löjtnant André Burakovsky." Behind Ovechkin, a stone-faced blond man with ice-blue eyes politely inclined his head, his taller companion doing the same. "Count Vladimir Andreyevich Tarasenko, who's also a godchild of the tsar, same as me." A man with curling blond hair and blue eyes like Panarin's smiled good-naturedly at them. "And here is Baron Yevgeni Vladimirovich Malkin with Sir Sidney Patrick Crosby, who'll be returning to St. Petersburg with us for another diplomatic assignment." Both men stopped their conversation to murmur their polite hellos, Crosby congratulating Jon on his wedding. Jon knew Crosby from his days in university and he nodded his head in thanks.

"And of course you already know him Petya, but for your husband, let me introduce my good friend Prince Sergei Andreyevich Bobrovsky." A man in a layered and padded dinner jacket stood up from his seat to engulf both Jon and Patrick in a fierce bear hug. "Ah, Temya, so you've brought your Petya along." Panarin coughed emphatically and looked at Jon. Bobrovsky looked abashed. "I'm sorry, where are my manners? Is this your husband Petya?"

"Yes, Sergei Andreyevich." Patrick tucked Jon's arm under his, drawing him closer. "My husband, Lord Jonathan Toews, Marquess Toews of Blackburg-Hawke, son and heir of the duke of Blackburg-Hawke," Patrick pronounced with relish, looking up at Jon's smiling face proudly.

"A duke, eh? A good match." Bobrovsky clapped Patrick on the shoulder. To Jon, "You're lucky you've caught this one, otherwise we would've snapped him up for our Temya."

" _Seryozha_." Panarin gave an exasperated sigh.

Patrick looked embarrassed.

Jon was suddenly confused at what Bobrovsky had just inferred. "Is he saying that you and Panarin were—?"

"Jonny, good Lord, is that you?" A shout from across the room made everyone look up. A man in a lieutenant's uniform had just arrived with two other men, and was now coming up to them excitedly.

"Do you and your husband know Lieutenant Oshie?" Panarin asked Patrick, who was scowling at Jon's reunion with his boisterous friend.

"I'm quite sure my husband does," Patrick answered peevishly while Jon and the lieutenant hugged and laughed at each other. "But not _me_. Jon, my darling husband," Patrick stepped between the two reunited friends, pronouncing the word 'husband' deliberately. "Won't you introduce me?"

"Oh, I'm sorry my dearest love." Jon pulled his friend forward. "Lieutenant Timothy Leif Oshie, of the Coldstream Regiment of Foot Guards. We were friends from university."

"This must be the famous Mr. Patrick Kane," Oshie pronounced. "Or should I say, Lord Patrick Toews, now that you've married your way into Jon's name and family." looking at Patrick, from head to foot.

Patrick smiled, tight-lipped. "So I did."

"Is this the same Jon that you spoke of from your years in university?" the man beside Oshie asked, who'd earlier introduced himself as Lieutenant Wilson, also of the Coldstream Guards. "He's told us stories where you got yourselves into all sorts of drunken mischief. Thick as thieves, the two of you."

Jon laughed, "That was nothing, Oshie and I were just really good friends."

"I think Toews has drunkenly sat on Oshie's lap far too many times for them to be mere friends," Wilson said slyly, under his breath, but not low enough for Patrick not to catch.

Patrick's smile grew more rigid.

* * *

**The Stalybridge Old Band, famous for only performing within the Manchester Area, has now accepted a mysterious Request to travel to an Estate for an Autumn Harvest Celebration. As to whose Estate is this, Mr. Thomas Avison refuses to say...**

**(Excerpt from the _Farmers Journal_ )**

* * *

In deference to the count and his friends, food was served à la russe and a parade of footmen carried exquisite French dishes alongside the more traditional Russian favorites—fricassée de poulets aux champignons and bowls of borscht, shchi, solyanka and ukha; côtelettes d'Agneau sautés with Macédoine sauce served with baskets of pelmeni and pirozhki; fillets of fat chicken, saute au supreme, along with plates full of beef stroganoff and jewel-like ikra. Kvass and vodka were poured in crystal goblets along with claret, sherry, port, and Madeira.

But for all the sumptuousness of their dinner, Patrick might as well have been eating sawdust. Jon's friend monopolized his conversation and Patrick didn't want to appear rude by interrupting them. Everyone else was preoccupied by their own dinner partners so Patrick fell silent and ate his food quietly. Panarin, sitting at the head of the table and seeing Patrick's reticence, signaled for Count Tarasenko to change places with him so that he could sit beside Patrick and keep him company. A grateful Patrick latched on to him for conversation.

"How long will you be gone?" Patrick found his plate empty. Glancing at Jon—who was still listening to the lieutenant recount his adventures in Portugal under Wellesley—Patrick sighed and reached for a dish of potatoes.

"Several months, probably," Panarin estimated. "I'll write, solnyshko, and you won't even notice I'm gone," he winked. Patrick laughed, as he always did, at Panarin's ridiculous parody of being flirtatious.

Beside them, Jon, startled by the sound of Patrick's laugh, looked beside him and saw his husband laughing with the count. The irrational bite of jealousy welled up again.

"Count Panarin is good friends with your husband, isn't he?" Oshie observed. Prince Bobrovsky, sitting across them, answered fondly, "Yes, they are. The best of friends!"

Jon recalling what he said earlier, asked, "Prince Bobrovsky, when you said Patrick and the count…?"

"Didn't you know? It was once news in the drawing rooms of London and in St. Petersburg that Lord Bowman gave Artemi Sergeyevich permission to call on Patrick. We thought it would be the prelude to an engagement, so when Lord Bowman announced that you'd married Petya, with his blessing, we were all shocked!"

Jon was stunned. Patrick and Lord Bowman told him nothing about this. Lord Bowman had insinuated that he'd had other candidates in mind but he never knew that Panarin was one of them. "I didn't know—"

Oshie made a rude noise. "Of course, your husband won't tell you such things."

"Well, it was just a permission to call," Kuznetsov, now joining the conversation, tutted at the lieutenant in rebuke. "And no engagement was announced. Artemi Sergeyevich might simply just be asking permission to see him as a friend, nothing more."

"That closeness, though." Wilson insinuated, looking meaningfully at Panarin and Patrick whose heads were bent close together and talking animatedly with each other.

The bite of jealousy turned more insistent, and Jon had to look away when Patrick smiled at Panarin.

"But Lord Bowman said that you and Petya were a love match, and we understood." Prince Bobrovsky nodded sagely, continuing on as if the other people in table had not spoken. "We asked Temya on how he felt—he was also surprised about the news—but he laughed and said that he was happy for both of you."

Jon didn't know why Lord Bowman decided that a penniless son of a duke would make a better prospect than Alexander I's godson, but his jealousy was now proven to not be irrational. Panarin had courted Patrick and his coquettish jokes now held a more sinister meaning for Jon.

* * *

After the dinner, some of the guests had wandered off to form small groups. Jon, feeling wary because of Prince Bobrovsky's revelations, now stuck to Patrick's side like a bur and frowned direfully everytime that Panarin went near.

"Petya, would you like to see the portrait that I just acquired?" Panarin called from the drawing room door, beckoning for Patrick to follow him up to the upstairs bedrooms.

"Yes, of course—" Patrick stood up from the settee. Jon, hearing insidious demons whispering of secret trysts in his ear, also stood up. "I'll come with, my love."

"No, sit down darling, we won't be long." Patrick stopped him with a hand on his arm.

Jon seeing Panarin waiting, and remembering Bobrovsky's story, brushed Patrick's hand away. "No I insist, dearest."

Patrick looked at him oddly. "Alright, suit yourself."

Jon and Patrick followed Panarin to the upper floors, where he led them to a beautiful blue, gold, and red room. Panarin waved his hand proudly at the Reynolds painting hanging over the mantel of a fireplace. It was a portrait of a child in profile, wearing a cotton smock and a ribbon tied in her hair.

Patrick gasped, delighted. "Temya, you shouldn't have—"

"You loved it, and I bought it." Panarin grinned. "I thought hanging it in your favorite guest room would be a nice touch, in case you visit."

This was all too much for Jon, looking around and seeing the velvet coverlets and gold fixtures of gambolling, fat cupids, in what was, apparently, the room that Patrick regularly stayed in when he came over to visit Panarin. He remembered Panarin's disapproval of the inn and his disbelief that Jon had not yet provided a house for Patrick. His simmering jealousy now roared fully, stoked on by the shame of his original impoverished circumstances and the inability to easily provide the same luxury to Patrick as the count did.

"The night grows late, I think we should go home," Jon spoke up, steering Patrick by the elbow out of the room.

"Jon, it's still early," Patrick objected, digging his feet.

"No, we must, I _insist_ ," Jon gritted his teeth. He saw a robe folded on a seat beside the bed. He wondered if Patrick slept here often enough to warrant a robe. The acid of suspicion and jealousy slowly ate at his insides.

Patrick, patience thinning, apologized to Panarin. "Will you excuse us, Temya? I need to have a quick word with my husband." Patrick pulled Jon into the adjacent dressing room, closing the door behind him with a click.

"What on _earth_ is the matter with you?" Patrick was at a loss for Jon's sudden moodiness after dinner. "The evening is not yet finished! Temya leaves tomorrow and he won't be back for months, I'd want to relish some time with my friend."

"Well if it's for _Temya_ ," Jon said, snidely. "Heaven forbid you miss the attentions of your former lover."

"What," Patrick whispered, voice full of disbelief. "Did you just say?"

"Bobrovsky told me everything. You were almost engaged to each other, and you never said a word! Is that why you speak with him so _familiarly_?" Jon hissed, accusing. "Would I have to stand guard every time he visits? Should I ready my pistols? _Am I another man that has to kill for your affections?_ "

Patrick drew his breath sharply, eyes wide with shock and hurt.

Jon snapped his mouth shut, the horror of what he just said a cold water to his senses. "Patrick—I'm sorry, I didn't mean—" Jon scrambled, contrite, and reached for Patrick's hand.

Patrick recoiled from Jon's touch. His eyes had hardened into a steely blue, his mouth set in a thin line. "How _dare_ you. None of what you heard was true. He's my good friend, nothing more."

"Patrick—" Jon pleaded.

"But you did anyway," Patrick replied coldly. "You could've asked me, and I would've told you everything. But you chose to believe what people thought they knew." Patrick drew himself up and turned his back on Jon. "Then believe what you will, Lord Toews. I'll see you downstairs." He opened the door and left Jon standing in the middle of the room.

* * *

**The port cities of Corunna and Ferrol, as well as northern Spain, formerly captured and occupied by the French, stands firm against any Foothold from Bonapartist Troops. The likes of Men such as Sinforiano López and Men like Gómez, Montoya, and Torres, have kept the fight...**

**(Except from the _Country Chronicle_ )**

* * *

Patrick had spoken with the count, voice terse, that, regretfully, he and Jon would have to take their leave. Panarin, seeing Patrick pale with anger after his conversation with his husband, asked, "Is everything alright, Petya?", his voice full of careful concern.

"Thank you for inviting us. I wish I could stay, but certain things have been made themselves known and," Patrick grimaced, "I've simply lost any taste for merriment tonight."

"If there's anything I could do…" Panarin hedged, sounding worried. He could see the marquess hovering beside Patrick's elbow but Patrick ignored him, shrugging off his hand when Jon dared to touch him. A far sight from their earlier lovestruck expressions.

"Are you sure?" he pressed, once more. "Perhaps you and Jon would like to stay the night, I'll ready your old room—" Blackburg was at least two or three hours worth of travel, even with fresh horses. For two people in a black mood, a small, swaying, and jolting padded box might not be the best of places.

Patrick shook his head, his refusal final. "Enjoy the rest of your night, Temya. Write to me once you arrive in St. Petersburg."

Panarin fretted inside—instinct told him that something was wrong—but in the end, prudence won. One does not go between lover's quarrels—that was an ironclad law in any court, whether in London or in St. Petersburg—and risk a morning challenge of swords or pistols. To insist was not for the best. "I will, Petya. The moment that my feet land on Rus." He gave a cheery smile that was returned by neither Patrick nor Jon.

He ordered for their carriage to be prepared and gave Patrick a quick kiss on the cheek and a brief handshake to a quiet Jon to say goodbye.

The journey back was excruciating. Patrick didn't sit beside Jon but across him, eyes set determinedly out of the window, hands clenched in fists on his knees. He remained still for the entire ride, stiff from anger and deaf to Jon's pleas.

"Patrick, _please_." Jon reached out for Patrick's hand. "I spoke out of anger, you have to believe me."

Patrick refused to look at him and knocked his hand away, as if scalded. "Would you like me to ask Hartman or Kitty to come with me, every time the count or any of my friends visit? Or when I go to Rockford? Maybe I'll ask Hayden too," Patrick finally spoke, voice cutting. The lights of the inn could be seen in the distance. They were nearly home. "Or would you prefer your own men, both Seabrook and Keith perhaps, so that you'd be doubly assured of my virtue?"

The carriage lurched to a stop in front of the inn. Hartman and Kitty were waiting outside, holding lanterns.

"I don't know what has gotten into you, Jon." Patrick could hear Kitty asking the coachman about their early return. "But I'm glad that I've finally seen what you are." Patrick gave Jon one final look of angry disappointment, before wrenching open the carriage door. "And it breaks my heart that you're no different from the others that thought the worst of me."

* * *

Patrick went up, followed by a baffled Hartman who was asking a series of worried questions. "We weren't expecting you to be back for a few more hours, is something wrong? Did something happen?"

Patrick glowered and said nothing, tugging his cravat loose.

"You were very rude to the marquess," Kitty admonished Patrick. "He was calling for you but you turned your back on him."

Patrick jerked out of his coat and threw it across the room, startling both Kitty and Hayden, who'd just entered.

"Patrick, _answer me_ ," Hartman said, now increasingly alarmed.

"Do you know what Jon told me earlier?" Patrick spun to face Hartman, jaw flexing in anger. "He asked if he has to guard me when the count visits, if he has to duel for me or kill anyone for me!" His mouth worked furiously, resentment and unhappiness warring on his face, overlaid by bitter disappointment. He'd had faith that Jon thought the best of him. But it seemed that his faith was misplaced.

Kitty made a sound of outrage. Hayden looked disgusted. "Well, he's showed his colors now, hasn't he?"

Hartman stared in shock. "Surely he didn't—"

"It cut me deep. I thought he was my friend." Patrick's voice had now become thick, the tell-tale prelude to angry tears. "And Lord Bowman said that he was a good man, that he would be kind, that he won't speak of…" Patrick pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes, voice small. "You were there, it wasn't my fault that they _died_."

Hartman's heart broke for Patrick. They'd all been assured that the marquess had been told about Patrick's past and that he wouldn't voice anything cruel to him about it.

It was nearly four years, but he remembered it clearly, as surely as if it had only happened yesterday. Their entire lives had been changed in that one night, but most of all Patrick's.

* * *

_August 1806, America, four years ago_

_Fall_

Hartman was dining with Hayden for his farewell dinner, along with their friends Schmaltz and Hinostroza, when a harried servant knocked at his door with an urgent message from Mrs. Kane. Patrick had left in a hurry for Bowler's Green, a small clearing outside of town, and he'd frantically asked that they follow after.

They rode as fast as they could, but it was too late. Both of their friends were dead—Harry had been fatally shot in the eye and Tom, realizing that he'd killed his friend, took his pistol to himself before Patrick could stop him. They arrived and found Patrick sitting beside the prone bodies, speechless with fear, the front of his clothes black with dried blood in the lamplight. He'd dragged their bodies together and covered their faces with their coats.

Hartman was the first to take Patrick's hand, grimy with blood, and pull him away from where he was slumped beside Tom and Harry. Hinostroza went to check the bodies, swallowing down the bile in his throat as he lifted the men's bloody coats. Hayden was somewhere in a copse of trees, retching his dinner.

Schmaltz, from a distance, whispered, "Tom? Harry?" Hinostroza shook his head.

"Are you sure?" Schmaltz pressed. Hinostroza cursed, before replying, "Harry was shot clean in the eye. Tom put his pistol to his temple and half of his head is gone, so yes, I'm _sure_."

"I tried to stop them, I tried to, but they wouldn't listen." Patrick stood, shivering enough to rattle his teeth. Hartman took off his coat to put around him.

Hayden, still pale from nausea, was huddled with Schmaltz and Hinostroza around the bodies, a hushed argument peppered with angry German and Spanish.

"Patrick has to leave, they will hang him if they catch him," Schmaltz anxiously pointed out.

"And go _where_ ," Hinostroza demanded. "Tom and Harry's families will be looking for them tonight. If he has to leave, he has to leave _now_."

"Europe," Hayden said with finality. "My ship, the _Ranger_ , leaves soon, and if he needs to go, he comes with me. We can tell everyone that we planned it all along and that Patrick was never here." He looked at Schmaltz and Hinostroza, who both nodded at him.

"Are you mad," Hartman hissed, his arms still around Patrick. But he knew Hayden was right. The duelling laws were still strictly enforced. Death was meted out to those that killed another man in a duel. The same fate was waiting for those that were accused of instigating them. The Kanes were known, but so too, were Tom and Harry's families. The Medfords and the Bellings would see that Patrick hang for the death of their sons.

Patrick huddled closer to him, body now wracked with frightened sobs. He would be eighteen in two months. If he stayed here, he could be dead in two weeks or two days, depending on how fast Tom and Harry's families could bribe a judge and jury to sentence him for murder. Hayden's quick thinking could save him or, at the very least, buy him some time in Europe until Patrick's family and their connections can intervene and stay the judge's hand.

Hartman felt Patrick's cold hand gripping his own. His mind darted around, already plotting—Hayden and Patrick knew nothing of travelling, but Hartman did. And if he came with them, Hayden's alibi would gain more ground. Two people leaving furtively could still arouse suspicion. A man leaving with several friends? Not at all.

"Then I must be as well, because I'm going with you," Hartman said, holding Patrick's smaller form closer, face determined.

* * *

_June 1810, England, present day_

_Summer_

Hours later, Paul knocked on the door and whispered apologetically that the marquess was downstairs and he'd been there for hours, drinking alone.

Patrick was quiet for several minutes before responding, "Thank you Paul." Hartman was about to speak, but Patrick cut him off tiredly. "I'll speak with him. Regretful words have been said, both mine and his. Maybe cooler heads will prevail this time."

"Patrick?" Jon asked as Patrick went down from the stairs. His eyes were red-rimmed. A bottle of brandy stood half-empty near Jon's elbow. "I'm sorry, my love."

"You don't have to keep saying that anymore Jon, there's no one here to pretend for," Patrick said, suddenly tired. For Jon to call him that, after everything he said, _ached_. "It's been a long day and you're full of drink. Perhaps we should go to bed." When he didn't respond, Patrick turned away. "Good night."

"Were you really lovers?"

Patrick stopped, mid-step.

"No," Patrick answered. Four years ago, Tom had also asked the same thing. _Are you and Harry lovers?_ Patrick had laughed callously back then. _What do you care?,_ he'd asked. Two shots in the night and those words had haunted him ever since. He won't make that same mistake again. "We never were, and we never will be."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

Visions of Tom and Harry's faces danced before Patrick's eyes. Hartman had to burn his clothes that night, there was too much blood that had soaked the cloth.

"Yes," Patrick said, voice steady.

"But he loves you, doesn't he," Jon asked again.

Patrick paused before answering, "For some time now, yes." There was no use lying. It was a day of hard truths, after all. What was one more.

Jon looked at the fire crackling in the hearth, "Then we are the same, him and I," before trudging out the door of the inn, leaving a speechless Patrick in the parlor.

* * *

Patrick sat for several minutes in the dark, the light from the fireplace having gone out a few minutes after Jon's departure, before going up to his and Jon's room in silence. Jon's things were there, as they have been every night, draped or thrown haphazardly on his side of the room, his muddy boots at the foot of the bed. Jon's shirts and work trousers were folded neatly on top of the covers, and his new boots and dancing slippers were still inside their boxes. Patrick saw the robe that he'd lent Jon that he had taken for his own—a red silk banyan that he'd wear during the cold mornings when he'd shave over the small basin near the window.

Patrick fingered the robe. There was a soap stain on one sleeve, where Jon accidentally spattered some on his arm when he wasn't looking. Patrick had wiped it down for him and Jon had smiled at him in thanks.

His mind went back to Jon's words. Patrick couldn't comprehend how Jon said something so important so casually, as if it was an afterthought, like a mere observation on the weather. Patrick's mind kept turning. Was it the truth? Or was it just the drink?

 _Tomorrow_ , he thought, _I'll speak with Jon. If it's true, if he meant what he said._ Patrick took the robe and wrapped it around himself, inhaling the smell of the earth, petrichor, and everything that was _Jon_ , before curling into a ball to sleep.

* * *

**William Combe's comic Poem, _The Tour of Dr Syntax in Search of the Picturesque_ , illustrated by the artist Thomas Rowlandson, continues its publication. This edition's Poem is about the unfortunate Dr Syntax stumbling into a Lake while attempting to reach the perfect Location from which to sketch a suitably ruined Castle, a tongue-in-cheek nod to Lord Toews' Hawke House...**

**(Excerpt from the _Examiner_ )**

* * *

Patrick found the resolve to spend the next few days with his men or Keith, Sharp, and Seabrook as he did before Panarin's dinner and before Jon's confession. He continued working on plans for Blackburg and wrote letters that he asked Sharp, who traveled constantly to town for business, to send to his numerous acquaintances in London.

Jon didn't return to the inn and kept his distance, even with Patrick asking for his whereabouts repeatedly, first discreetly, and later more overtly. A few days after he left, Patrick received small wrapped packages from Jon—a few books, a new hat—whether they were gifts that he was supposed to receive or sent in contrition for what had happened, Patrick didn't know. Patrick had initially sought Jon to thank him and for a chance to speak with him, but Jon was nowhere to be found, neither in his cottage nor in Gilbert Hall.

After days of this, Patrick stopped trying to look for Jon. The latest among his gifts was a blue satin ribbon stitched with silver flowers, to mark the page for Patrick's books. Patrick lovingly tucked it in between the pages of his dog-eared copy of _Pamela_ and said nothing.

Patrick had now taken to sitting near the parlor in view of the inn's door, or sitting up in bed late at night, restlessly waking up at the smallest noise, thinking that it was Jon returning.

"Has Jon come home?" Patrick asked, barefoot and wearing only his nightshirt, expectant. The noise of horses had woken him up, and he'd rushed from his bed after seeing the shadow of a tall man in the inn's courtyard. His heart thudded at his chest as he took the stairs down, two steps at a time.

He was disappointed, however. It was only Hartman talking to a new arrival, a tall young man with curling hair and sleepy eyes. "This here's Mr. Strome. He's looking for Lord Toews."

The young man bobbed his head courteously. "At your service, milord. I'm friends with Mr Raddysh of Rockford and he's told me that there's work to be had in Blackburg, if I look for the marquess."

"Oh." Patrick said, taking the letter of introduction that the young men held forward. "My husband's not here."

"Will he be back tomorrow milord?"

 _I don't know,_ Patrick thought, as he'd remembered Jon's complete disappearance and the fruitless questions to all of Jon's friends and men, _if he will even come back at all._

* * *

**Edward Smith-Stanley, 13th Earl of Derby, has sent several Pieces from his Family's Provenance to the Society of Antiquaries of London. Richard Gough, prominent and influential English Antiquarian and former Director of the Society of Antiquaries of London has faithfully recorded these up until his Death last Year. With the Donation comes several Paintings and Bronze statuettes. Not included, however, are the Stanley Silver, most famous of which is the Cup bequeathed by Thomas Stanley, 1st Earl of Derby to the 9th Duke of Blackburg-Hawke...**

**(Excerpt from the _National Register_ )**

* * *

Jon, appalled at his behavior at Panarin's dinner and his subsequent confession, retreated inside his cottage and hid himself from Patrick. He spent his days in secret, asking about Patrick's whereabouts and sending him small gifts, but staying away, afraid of what Patrick would do or what Patrick would say once they inevitably met.

"What's that?" Keith had asked, curious of the little basket of strawberries that Jon was washing in a small basin. He was removing the leaves and carefully placing them in another basket, mindful to put only those unbruised and ripe.

"Patrick likes strawberries." Jon frowned at one that was not shaped pleasingly, and set it aside.

"Which you should give him yourself, instead of asking us to play messenger for you," Seabrook muttered, as he was roped into doing the ponderous task as well. "Patrick was outside just yesterday looking for you, while you skulked about inside this cottage, hiding like the sad, strange man that you are."

Jon said nothing. Keith raised an eyebrow at Seabrook, who glared and pointed angrily at Jon. Keith shrugged.

"But will you take them to him?" Jon asked after a few minutes of silence. The little basket was nearly full. "Because I can ask Sharpy to do it, but he'll say something, I know he will."

"Of course I'll take it," Seabrook said testily. "And I won't say anything even though I should, because my friend is a fool."

Jon said nothing, standing up angrily to throw the water from the basin into the sink.

"He hasn't told me anything, but from how he's determinedly trying to avoid his husband, my guess is that Jon has finally realized that he loves Patrick and has let him know in the most disastrous way possible," Seabrook spoke beside Keith, watching Jon as he scrubbed the stains from the basin before hanging it up on the hooks that hung from the cottage's rafters. "And now our poor friend probably doesn't know what to do with himself."

"I can punch him and get some sense into his thick skull." Keith stroked his jaw thoughtfully.

"Don't think of punching him," Seabrook said, quickly interrupting that line of thought.

"What did Sharpy say?"

"Sharpy laughed."

"He would."

* * *

**The Theatre Royal in Drury Lane is still under construction after being destroyed by fire, yet another of a series of misfortunes that has plagued Signor Chiarelli, from bad Investments to...**

**(Excerpt from the _Bell's Messenger_ )**

* * *

"I say we go back to London and leave the marquess here if he persists in hiding from Patrick," Hayden pointed out. "The count was right, we have a perfectly excellent townhouse in Grosvenor Square. I don't see why we have to live in this inn far longer than necessary if Patrick is going to divorce the marquess—"

"Patty is not going to divorce the marquess—" Kitty frowned.

"Or if the marquess is going to divorce him—"

"No one is going to divorce anyone!" Hartman sighed, exasperated. He'd spent the last few days consoling an increasingly worried Patrick and he was on a short leash with everyone. "Hayden, you're a man of law, you know that no divorce can happen without a public trial or the writ of Parliament, so stop that nonsense!"

Jon was still nowhere to be seen. Patrick's anger had dissipated into worry, and his worry had now turned to anxiety. Patrick had stopped asking where Jon was after days of fruitlessly badgering Hossa and Bickell, who remained tight-lipped. Hammer and Crow had also disappeared, and where they worked, Patrick didn't know.

"If you ever see him, can you tell—" Patrick murmured to Seabrook after he accompanied the duchess for a visit. The duchess was not pleased with the marquess' behavior, and plainly said so.

"Silly child, he'd always whip himself into a frenzy over some small thing or the other. Remember that time, Brent?" The duchess shook her head in disapproval. Seabrook looked pained. Only the duke and duchess called him by his Christian name. "When his father and I left for a trip to Brighton without him and he'd gone about crying and telling everyone in the village that he'd live in the stables and he was now the stable master's son." The duchess rolled her eyes heavenward. "Don't worry my dear, my son will come to his senses and it'll be alright. I'll try to find him and talk to him." With that, she patted Patrick's hand and urged him to eat some of the comfits that she brought from Gilbert Hall. "Strawberries, my dear, Jonathan said you loved them."

"Tell him what, my lord?" Seabrook asked, as he gathered the little jars of jam that the duchess had brought along with her.

What was there to say when a stranger that you've married and had unknowingly, and hopelessly, fallen for in secret tells you that they love you, and disappears to hide from you, before you could fully understand what they said?

"Nothing," Patrick said, and went back to writing his letters.

On the eighth day since Jon had left, Patrick whispered, "Maybe we should go back to London." Hartman looked at Patrick, whose eyes were now perpetually clouded with worry and bruised from very little sleep, trying to wait for Jon's return every night. Peeksy, sleeping beside him, opened his eyes to lick Patrick's chin, distressed at his master's sadness. "If Jon doesn't want to come back," he said faintly. _To me_ , was unsaid.

Hartman sighed, but nodded. He knew all the signs. Heartbreak, when first felt, was a painful thing to watch.

"Of course," Hartman agreed, though reluctantly, and combed Patrick's hair out of his eyes. "I'll let Kitty and Hayden know."

* * *

**D**

**I've heard you've arrived safely in Blackburg. The Years have been difficult, but I know the Marquess and His Husband will make sure that there will be Work for You.**

**I've told you about Messers Seabrook, Keith, and Sharp, of course, but I've also befriended His Husband's Men. Good men, all. Once you've settled in, look for them, especially the one called Kitty. Tell him that Mr. Raddysh of Rockford sends His Regards.**

**DR**

* * *

There was a time when the marquess, in a fit of pique and a desire for independence from his family, slept in the Seabrook's attic. It was a strange choice for the man who would one day become master of all Blackburg, but Seabrook's father, the old parson, had seen the marquess grow up with his son and the other boys in the village. He didn't mind the strange sight of the marquess dragging trunks up the staircase and the soft patter of feet at night, when the marquess would go down to find himself something to drink.

So among all three of them, Seabrook was the one who knew Jon's moods and could divine his thoughts. And the least among them who cared for what Jon's feelings were when he wanted to say something.

"You are a stupid, stupid man." Seabrook sat heavily on the chair in front of Jon. There was a half-empty bottle of Madeira on the table. Jon was determinedly not looking at him from where he was cleaning a scythe. From the corner of the room, Juliette stared at him balefully in her bed of straw.

"Provoking a man while he's sharpening a scythe and while he's sad and full of drink is _also_ not wise. Between the of two of us, you're the more stupid one."

"Patrick leaves for London tomorrow."

That stopped Jon. He looked up. "What?"

"He leaves, because you left him. For days he has looked for you and worried over you, but instead of acting like a grown man and confronting what you did and said, head-on, you've chosen to act like a child and hide." Seabrook stabbed his finger on the wooden table, punctuating his words. "Now he is leaving, and I hope that he never comes back because this is exactly what you had coming to you."

Jon looked stricken. "I don't want him to leave."

"How would he know that if you've all but vanished from his sight." Seabrook dearly wished they were children again so he could box Jon's ears.

"I said some things to Patrick and I..." Jon's voice broke as he continued, "...and I realized that maybe I said them because I was jealous—and I know it still doesn't excuse how horrible I've been—but when I realized why I was jealous, and I told Patrick why, out of drunkenness, the possibility of confronting Patrick now terrifies me."

Seabrook's anger deflated. This was still Jon, and even at his most obtuse or at his most vexing, he was still the boy that slept in their attic and told Seabrook all his hurts, disappointments, and sadnesses over the years.

"I know you married him, in your selflessness, for your family and for Blackburg," Seabrook said gently. "And maybe you thought that being with Patrick would mean years of a companionable, but loveless marriage, spending your life upholding your end of a bargain made with Lord Bowman. But maybe, it doesn't always have to be that way. Maybe you now love him, not out of duty for your family or for this land, but for yourself. And maybe, just maybe, he feels that way for you too. But you wouldn't know, if you don't speak with him," he pressed on, kindly.

Jon sat in front of Seabrook. His eyes were bloodshot from drink and his hair and clothing had gone ragged from the lack of care, cheeks rough with stubble. He remembered how Patrick used to watch him shave every morning from the bed or from his seat near the door. _Your beard is terrible_ , Patrick once said to him, when Jon had first moved in and he'd seen Jon with stubble in the morning. _At least I can grow one_ , Jon had rolled his eyes. _Give me the knife_ , Patrick had put out his hand impatiently and proceeded to carefully scrape over Jon's chin, hands quick and steady. From that close, Jon could smell that heady scent of clean skin, soap, and faint rose water. The first few nights back at his cottage, he missed it, the calming scent that he'd gotten used to before he slept.

Patrick might refuse him. Patrick might even laugh at him. But in the same vein, Patrick could also say yes and love him. Jon didn't really know which side the coin would fall—but if he allowed Patrick to leave, without saying anything, then it was the same as accepting defeat.

* * *

**Mrs. Hannah Cowley's popular and enduring comedies— _The Runaway_ , _Whos' the Dupe?_ , _Albina_ , _The Belle's Stratagem_ , _A Bold Stroke for a Husband_ —continue their performance in Covent Garden and Haymarket. With her death, the Honorable Adam Burish will finish her final Comedy, _The Duke's Marriage,_ where the Hero, Caine Peters, finds himself married to the dashing Lord Graves...**

**(Excerpt from the _Gentleman's Magazine_ )**

* * *

"Do you want to bring the hats or do you want to leave the hats," Kitty asked, hands on his hips as he stood in the middle of Patrick's room. They were leaving tomorrow and Hartman wanted everything ready by night. "Leave them, they all look awful," Hartman shouted from where he was hastily folding shirts and coats and putting them inside open trunks. Patrick said nothing, turning under his blankets and burrowing deeper. Kitty looked at Hartman reproachfully. Hartman sighed.

"Maybe we can keep this one." Kitty held one of the newer ones aloft, a pretty thing in black velvet with a deep red grosgrain ribbon band. Seabrook had given it to Hartman on the first afternoon of Jon's departure, to pass on to Patrick. Patrick had been delighted and looked for the marquess, cheeks pink with happiness. He'd searched high and low, dropping by Gilbert Hall and Jon's cottage, but no one had seen Jon. "No, leave it please," Hartman said quietly. Kitty looked crestfallen.

"Keep it," a voice came from the doorway. The marquess stood there, looking tired and his eyes with heavy circles underneath. "I had it made for Patrick."

Patrick, under the covers, stiffened.

"Lord Toews," Kitty sputtered in surprise while bowing his head jerkily at the marquess. "We weren't expecting you."

Hartman stood and nodded perfunctorily. _Where in God's earth have you been these past few days, Patrick has been worried sick,_ Hartman thought, wanting to shake him. He settled for, "Patrick hasn't risen from bed yet, my lord, perhaps later—"

"Thank you, Hartman." Normally courteous to a fault, Jon cut off Hartman mid-speech. It was the first time that the marquess had dismissed them outright. "If you could please leave me and Patrick alone for a while."

Hartman debated the wisdom of leaving Patrick with the marquess, but Kitty gently dragged him by the elbow to the door. "Let them be," he said, a sad look in his eyes. "They need to sort this out between themselves." Hartman looked at him. He sometimes forgot Kitty was no longer a boy with a puppy barking at his heels, tagging along in their adventures. That he wasn't the same young man who stood stubbornly at the docks as they prepared to leave four years ago, clutching Hayden's arm, _No, you can't leave me, I'm going with Patty too._

Somewhere in between here and America, little Kitty had grown up to be a perceptive man.

"Of course," Hartman murmured and closed the door for their privacy.

Jon looked down at the form huddled under the covers. Only a few curls peeked from the edges of the blanket, as well as the tips of Patrick's fingers. Around them, all of Patrick's things were already neatly stored away, ready to soon be brought down and placed in the waiting carriages and wagons.

Patrick was lying on what used to be Jon's side of the bed. Jon dragged a chair and sat beside him.

"I'm sorry," Jon started. "For everything. That I said those things out of jealousy. That I acted horribly and inexcusably. My words probably mean nothing to you now, but I wanted to let you know before you leave." He inhaled shakily. "Before you leave me for London and decide to never come back."

Patrick's hands curled to grip the blanket between his fingers but made no move to do anything else.

Jon closed his eyes before drawing himself up. It was done, and Patrick's silence was telling. "Good bye," Jon whispered.

He pushed the chair back and, with one last look at Patrick's form under the bed, opened the door to leave.

"Jon," Patrick's voice was scratchy from disuse. "Is that all you want to say?"

Jon looked back. Patrick's head poked out from the covers, his hair tangled and grimy, a shadow of reddish-gold down on his cheeks. The skin around his eyes looked tender and was a faint purple-red. Jon felt his heart squeeze.

"You told me something, the night before you left. I'm asking you again," Patrick said, voice firmer this time. "Is that all you want to say?"

Jon bit his lip, before swallowing. "I want to say many more things," Jon confessed. "But this time there's no wine to make me brave, so, here I am. Sober but a coward, afraid of what your answer will be."

Patrick fiddled with the ends of his sleeves. He was wearing the silk robe that Jon used to use. "If you don't say it again, then how would you know what my answer will be?"

Jon was wrung out from the past few days, but here, looking at Patrick, it was now or never. He'd say it and that would be that. If Patrick said no, then he'd at least live on, knowing that he did.

"I love you."

After a moment, Patrick smiled. "I know," and then after a small pause, "Come to bed. I've missed my husband."

Jon let loose the breath that he didn't know he was holding. He closed the door and, removing his boots, climbed onto their bed, gathering Patrick in his arms.

* * *

He didn't know how long he and Patrick slept. Patrick tucked himself into Jon, fingers clinging to the curve of Jon's shoulders and the meat of his arm. Jon in turn, folded Patrick to himself, arms tight around Patrick's waist, his other hand curled around Patrick's nape. They slept like that for several hours. Sometimes the door would open carefully and then close again softly, whispered voices on the other side. Jon vaguely felt the sun go down, go up and go down again on the periphery of his sleep. When it got too uncomfortable, he woke briefly to strip down to his shirt and drawers, making soft shushing noises at Patrick who frowned in his sleep, fingers looking for Jon. "Shh, I'm here," he assured him, taking Patrick's hand and kissing his palm softly, before lacing their fingers together. Patrick settled back to sleep, face on the crook of Jon's neck, breathing even. Jon closed his eyes, Patrick's curls on his cheek, and slept with him.


	4. the house of blackburg-hawke

* * *

**S**

**Thank you, dear Friend, for keeping my Grandson and Heir safe. Not a Day goes by when I pray that He comes back to fulfill His duties to Us, His Family.**

**Thank you for sending News of His Marriage with that Duke's Son as well. The other One—the Tsar's Godson—would have served our Purposes better, and provided better Connections, but We cannot risk Someone who could prove to be difficult to part with Patrick when the Time comes.**

**D**

* * *

_July 1810, England_

_Summer_

Patrick woke up, unwearied for the first time in several days, feeling like he'd come back from under a layer of cold ice to thaw in the warmth of the sun. Hartman was puttering around the room, pouring water in the basin beside the bed and going through Patrick's trunks.

Patrick stretched, feeling the bones in his back pop.

"Stop that," Hartman admonished, not even looking up from where he was opening and closing chests. After seeing Patrick and the marquess sleeping, he'd quietly sent the coachman home and asked Paul for some of the inn's men to put back the trunks that had been piled near the door. Hartman was relieved. Inside Patrick and Jon's bedroom, all was made right. No one was leaving.

"Where's Jon?" Patrick sat up abruptly, looking around, as if Jon was hiding somewhere behind the bedposts. "Where'd he go?"

Hartman grimaced. The shirts, hastily packed, were now sporting ungainly creases. "Your husband just left."

Patrick's face fell. "I thought…"

"For now." Hartman draped the shirt on the back of one chair before going to Patrick and whisking the sheets away from him. "But Lord Toews has told me that 'he will call on his beloved husband today, for a proper conciliation back to his good graces'. There were other flowery things too, but I don't want to ruin my excellent morning to say something that Lord Toews so obviously read from some weepy novel, so get up. I've asked for a bath for you, you smell like a musty rag."

Patrick was already removing his shirt. "What do you mean he left?" Patrick said, brow furrowed, teeth chewing on his lower lip. Jon had left for days, with no word on where he went. The thought of him leaving, without saying where, made Patrick nervous. "Did he say where he went? Or where he's been staying all this time? Did he say if he'll come back to our room?"

"Firstly, this is not your room," Hartman answered, putting his finger up and ignoring Patrick's questions. He was about to ask the marquess, in case Patrick woke up looking for him, but the marquess left before Hartman could say anything.

"And second, it's not even a house, it's an inn," Hartman said, disgruntled. "What would your mother think, if she found out that her son was living the first few years of his marriage in an _inn_. Your mother gave birth to you in a room bigger than this _entire_ inn."

"Firstly, how would you know that when we were born just a few years apart," Patrick said, putting his finger up and mimicking Hartman. "And second, I'll buy Jon a proper house." Patrick threw aside his breeches. Hartman picked them up, muttering a few choice words about Patrick emulating the marquess' slovenly habits. "As a wedding gift. A grand one. Fit for the son of a duke. He can take his pick—Grosvenor, St. James..."

Hartman stuck out his head in the hallway to call for the inn's men, who came in hoisting the copper tub for Patrick's bath, followed by a line of kitchen maids carrying buckets of water.

"Well, you can tell all your grand plans to your husband." Hartman stood back as the maids arranged the soaps and sponges near the lip of the tub. "And then you can tell us after."

Patrick smiled for the first time in weeks, dimples making deep craters on the corners of his mouth, and dunked his head under the bath water.

* * *

**A year after Robert Stewart, Marquess of Londonderry, Lord Castlereagh wounded George Canning in Putney Heath, another disgraceful Argument has erupted between the Parliament's members that narrowly avoided turning into duel—Viscount Laviolette has publicly quarreled with Lord Bylsma, a dispute so terrible and words exchanged so acrimonious, that Spencer Perceval has called for Order...**

**(Excerpt from the _Political Register_ )**

* * *

Jon hurriedly went back to his cottage to put on his best shirt, coat, and breeches before he went to call on Patrick. He shaved, combed his hair down, and stopped to ask one of the village children to gather bunches of bluebells and cowslips.

Sharp and Keith saw him while dropping a coin into the palm of the giggling child for her trouble. The little girl curtsied charmingly before running away shouting to her playfellows.

"Out from hiding and off to charm the husband back?" Keith called out while Sharp started humming a wedding ditty under his breath.

"Should I have gotten roses?" Jon asked, ignoring both Keith and Sharpy who were now humming loudly in unison. Bickell, passing by with a gaggle of puppies trailing after him, looked at them curiously.

Jon had tied together the flowers with a bit of twine and was now looking at it critically. Maybe a bit of ribbon would have been better. "This might be too plain for Patrick's tastes. Maybe I should've gotten roses. Sharpy?"

"I don't think he'd mind the flowers too much." Sharp waved idly at Jon. "Once he sees who's come a-calling."

"I've never seen that coat, Jonny." Keith peered at him. "And I know all your coats since you always wear the same things."

Sharp agreed. "For example," he pointed at Jon's feet, where he was wearing the shiny new black Hessians that Patrick had made for him. "You used to wear these brown boots everywhere. With everything. And now you're going around like a fancy London gentleman."

"It's always just been you lot, the villagers, the horses, and the sheep," Jon defended, offended on behalf of his trusty pair of brown boots _._ "I don't see any reason why I should have to dress better."

"Maybe you should, those Hessian boots certainly look good on you," Sharp observed. "And your husband would certainly approve."

Jon stared at him flatly. Sharp once convinced Jon that growing out his beard would make him look more dignified, ooh-ing and aah-ing when Jon finally did. Jon wore it proudly until his mother cornered him and asked him to "Shave it all off, my dear. It looks horrid. The vicar's wife has not stopped laughing." Jon never trusted Sharp with his comments about his appearance again.

Keith nodded solemnly. "Sharpy's right. They'd draw attention to your manly thighs." Jon also stared at him, unimpressed.

"And is that perfume?" Sharp sniffed, delighted. "You smell like a lady's boudoir."

Keith waved the air in front of him. "Where did you even get rose water?"

"I'm leaving!" Jon ignored them, making a move to saddle his horse. "I can't waste my day listening to your nonsense. My husband is waiting."

"Godspeed, young Lord Jon!" Sharp called out while Keith started elocuting in an impressive baritone, " _Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks…,_ "

Whatever Jon said back was drowned out by his horse's hooves.

* * *

**The Portland Vase has been deposited by William Henry Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, Duke of Portland, to the British Museum for Safekeeping after a Friend of His broke its base. Not so for the Stanley Cup, part of the famous Stanley Silver, which has been in the care of the Dukes of Blackburg-Hawke since it was given in Gratitude by the son of Sir Thomas Stanley, 1st Baron Stanley, titular King of Mann...**

**(Excerpt from the _Mirror of the Times_ )**

* * *

Kitty was met with an angry Hartman thundering out of Patrick's room, several coats and boots under both arms. "I will strangle him with his neckcloth if he doesn't make up his mind soon." He motioned to the door with his chin. "Talk to him, Kitty." Kitty was left with a confused look while Hartman stomped down the stairs, calling out, "Make him see sense!"

Kitty opened the door and was greeted with the sight of trunks opened and upended, linens on the floor, shirts, coats, and breeches draped on every surface. Patrick was in the middle of it all, elbows deep in one opened trunk. "Kitty! Help me!" He yanked one shirt only to throw it down in disgust. "I've got nothing to wear and Jon will be here soon!"

Kitty looked around at the chaos of clothes strewn about. He was at a loss at what to say. The number of clothes scattered could dress the Prince and half his court, with enough to spare. He looked at Patrick for an explanation.

Patrick huffed. "My husband can't see me with something outmoded and dull." He fell dramatically on his bed, face buried in a cloud of silk, cotton, and linen, and made the muffled sound of a wounded animal. Kitty patted his calf gingerly.

"How about the green velvet?" ( _No._ ) "The lilac one?" ( _And look like some insipid French pastry? No._ ) "This citrine silk?" ( _I'll look hideous and sickly. No.)_

Kitty didn't understand Patrick's sudden uncertainty in his clothing and appearance. He once traveled around Italy wearing a coat embroidered with hothouse flowers and a hat with a stuffed bird on the brim. The doge's son in Venice thought he was an actor for the commedia dell'arte.

"Help me Kitty!" Patrick raised his head over the cloud of frothy cloth, blue eyes beseeching and liquid. "Hartman has abandoned me!" He flopped backward, hand on forehead like some tragic heroine in a three-penny play.

Hayden chose that moment to come in, and after taking one look at Patrick's languishing form and the profusion of clothes, promptly closed the door shut.

"You too Hayden! You've abandoned me! _Fair-weathered friends_!" Patrick had now stood up and grabbed Kitty's hand to clasp on his chest. "Kitty is my only friend now."

Patrick whispered fervently, "I will never have a son, but if I could, I'll name him after you, _my only true friend_." The last was shouted at the door's direction, where something thumped. Probably Hartman throwing one of Patrick's boots in annoyance, Kitty thought. Patrick glared. "Those better not be my new boots, Hartman!"

"Maybe if we go for something plain," Kitty said, gingerly pulling his hands from Patrick's grip. Patrick was in a _mood_ , and after years of being his friend and travelling with him, Kitty knew better than to not humor him. "His lordship looks like a simple man, so perhaps the scarlet waistcoat and that new coat in navy and with the gold buttons."

"Yes, yes. You're right Kitty." Patrick dug through the piles of clothes in one of the settees before coming up with a silk waistcoat in deep scarlet, with ivy leaves embroidered in the same color. Kitty helped with his stock and cravat, as well as his waistcoat and coat, brushing down any dust or lint. "The pomade or..." Patrick waved a little ceramic pot in one hand and a small vial of rose water in another.

Kitty hand-combed Patrick's hair to one side, running it through with his palms doused with a little rose water. "No pomade, perhaps a little bit unruly to make the lordship think that you've just risen from bed," Kitty whispered conspiratorially, looking at Patrick from the mirror. "And maybe think of how you would look if he took you to bed."

Patrick squawked, turning to look at Kitty with a scandalized look. "You're a _child_ , what would you know of such things!"

Kitty grinned.

"I'm going to start carefully watching who consorts with you, _Alexander_." Patrick's eyes narrowed, his mind cataloguing the new arrivals. Was it Signor Caggiula? Or Meneer Koekkoek? Or that tall one, that came with Signor Perlini, what was his name...

"His lordship is here!" Hartman hissed from outside the door.

"Go!" Kitty pushed Patrick, after brushing down his coat one more time. Patrick hugged him quickly in gratitude before dashing out the door.

* * *

**The Statue of Vice-Admiral Horatio Nelson, 1st Viscount Nelson, 1st Duke of Bronté, stands in Uniform, with His one Arm resting on an Anchor with the Prow of His Ship—HMS _Victory_ —a 104-Gun first-rate Ship of the Line of the Royal Navy. _Victory_ is bested only by the _Sabre_ , a 118-gun three-decker built in the New York Navy Yard...**

**(Excerpt from _Baldwin's Journal_ )**

* * *

Jon was nervously waiting in the inn's parlor when Patrick came down.

Patrick was ruddy from the exertion of running down the stairs, but he caught himself on the last flight and composed himself. What Jon saw was Patrick, cheeks and lips flushed prettily, hair tousled and smelling faintly of flowers.

"Patrick." Jon bowed, stiff and correct, taking Patrick's hand to kiss the air above his knuckles. Patrick, taking his cue from Jon, inclined his head regally as if they were at a ball in the King's court. "Jon."

Jon, eschewing the lavish clothes that were sewn for him for that ill-fated dinner at Count Panarin's, had chosen to dress in one of his older, but better-cut coats, matched with a plain, crisp shirt and dark waistcoat. The coat, while simple, gave him a brooding and romantic air. His new boots were brushed to gleam and his buckskins fitted his muscular thighs like a glove. The smell of rosewater had blended with Jon's sweat from the ride in the morning sun and Patrick caught a whiff of the scent of perfume and male musk.

Jon produced a bouquet, a profusion of blue, yellow, and white flowers, held merely by twine. "For you. They're not lilies or roses, but," Jon said, embarrassed. He gestured awkwardly. "They made me think of your hair and eyes."

In the months before his abrupt departure from America, an ardent suitor once wrote Patrick an entire canto on the sweetness of his lips. Patrick had read it, laughed, and dismissed it as foolish. In London, Temya, in the gallant way common to all Russian nobility, had filled his townhouse with snow-white lilies every day until Patrick hastily left for Blackburg.

Now here was Jon, a man with no aspirations to poetry and lacking the pretensions of grandiose gestures, giving Patrick a bouquet of flowers picked from a field, with no other declaration other than it reminded him of his hair and eyes. Patrick didn't know why the small confession warmed his heart so.

"Thank you," Patrick murmured. He broke one of the cowslips and pinned it on his coat. "There."

Jon smiled, pleased.

* * *

They had luncheon by themselves in the inn's dining room. Kitty, Hayden, and Hartman had made themselves absent, and the inn's mistress and her maid served them.

Jon was at his gallant best, helping him to his seat and pouring wine for Patrick. After the meal, they retired to the drawing room, served with tea and little plates of scones.

Jon and Patrick sipped their tea leisurely, their conversation innocuous and side-stepping the events of the weeks past.

Patrick was careful not to mention anything about Panarin while Jon stayed within the safe confines of the topics regarding Blackburg.

"I've met Mr. Strome. A good man," Jon spoke while he poured more tea into Patrick's cup. "He was groomed out of university to serve Lord Wellesley, but that fell through. He's been shuttled around doing minor work as a clerk—a pity, since he's quite good with helping out with letters of business. Perhaps I'll take him, and have him see to some of my correspondences as my secretary."

Patrick gratefully accepted the cup. He'd never really noticed the small things that Jon did for him until he was gone—the constant stream of wine in his cups, the choice cuts of beef on his plate, the warm bread buttered and waiting every morning on the sideboard when he came down from his rooms. When Jon left, he'd tossed and turned, the bed feeling inexplicably colder than usual before a soft knock and Paul's apologetic head appeared by the door.

"We've forgotten to light the braziers and put the warming bricks at the foot of your bed, milord," he'd explained, as he and one of the maids patted down the thick blankets to hide the coal-warmed bricks underneath. "Lord Toews always sees to it that one of us does, before you go to bed, but," Paul fretted. Patrick thanked them and sent them down, lighting the braziers himself, the ache of missing Jon gnawing his insides more.

"That seems wise, I've seen a lot of your unanswered letters that have piled up," Patrick agreed, mind going back to the present and trying to catalogue who Strome was. Oh, yes. Tall, curly hair, and sleepy eyes. He arrived at the inn when Jon was gone. "Hartman or Hayden can help him."

"Kitty's been really helpful," Jon supplied. "He's made sure to show Strome around Blackburg."

Something about that niggled at the back of Patrick's mind but the shadows outside had lengthened with the sky turning a purple-blue hue, signalling the onset of the evening.

Patrick stared at Jon anxiously, the light from the fireplace turning his hair into a soft halo.

"Jon?" Patrick's said softly, expectant. "It's growing late." The words, and its meaning, hung thick in the air.

Jon fidgeted with his spoon for several fraught seconds before finally answering, "I should go."

A flicker of worried disappointment crossed Patrick's face, before he schooled it back to a smile. They were just settling, circling back to something they had before Jon's jealousy and Patrick's anger gave way to their quarrel. Perhaps Jon would return to the inn another day. "Of course. Thank you for your visit." Patrick also stood up and bowed, hand extending outward.

Jon took his hand. "Would you humor me for a ride, tomorrow?"

"To where?" Patrick asked, puzzled.

"I won't say, but you'll know once we're there." Jon placed a tender kiss on the soft skin of Patrick's wrist before turning to leave.

* * *

**After a gradual decline in His Health over the previous three Years, Bishop Beilby Porteus died last Year at Fulham Palace and, according to his Wishes, was buried at St. Mary's Church, Sundridge in Kent—a stone's throw from his Country Retreat in the Village—a Place to which he had loved to retire every Autumn. His Grave is oft-visited by Pernell-Karl Sylvester, Lord Subban, his Companion, Mr. C. Price, Sir Charles Middleton, William Wilberforce, Thomas Clarkson, Henry Thornton, Zachary Macaulay, among many Others...**

**(Excerpt from the _Country Herald_ )**

* * *

Jon was already waiting at the inn's courtyard the next day with two horses, saddled and ready. Just like their previous excursion, Paul had prepared a basket of food that was slung onto the saddle of Patrick's horse, but this time, there was no pregnant Juliette to keep them company. The mastiff had taken to following Bickell around, hovering near the farrier's knee wherever he went, only returning to Jon's side when Bickell went to Rockford.

After helping Patrick up, Jon went and straddled his own horse. With a click of his tongue, the horses went down the road on a steady clop, the summer sun beating down them, hot and bright.

"So where should we go on this fine day?" Patrick squinted at the morning light. He'd forgotten his hat and the tip of his nose was already turning red in the sun.

"It _is_ a fine day, isn't it?" Jon smiled at him, that shy boyish half-grin that Patrick was finding to be only reserved for him. "You'll see." The marquess, who felt warm at even the coolest of evenings, was wearing his thinnest linen shirt under his coat in deference to the warm weather. Patrick found it quite distracting.

They rode silently across the rolling Blackburg countryside, resplendent in emerald greens and buttercup yellows, the hillsides in the distance delicately patterned with lacy cow parsley.

After an uneventful half hour, the country lanes slipped past beneath the steady clop of their horse's hooves, and Patrick found himself following Jon up the gravel path leading to Hawke House.

The first time that Patrick saw the manor was in the dark, with the rain half obscuring any view from the outside. The inside was gloomy and foreboding, and the chill from the rain and Patrick's nervousness about the wedding made him blind to seeing anything beyond what was happening to him.

Now, in the full glory of daytime, the grandeur of Hawke House was breathtaking. The rows of windows and the marble columns gave it a stately, regal air. Jon was already down from his saddle and impatiently helping Patrick dismount even before the horse had come to a stop. He held out his hand for Patrick to take.

They didn't go through the side door in the kitchens like the night of their wedding. Jon opened the front doors that led to the foyer and their boots clacked on the checkered Italian marble, the noise echoing off the stuccoed walls.

Patrick stopped in surprise. Inside, unseen from the dust covering the windows, there were scaffolds that lined the walls, bags of plaster stacked neatly below them. Workmen's tools were lined carefully on trestle tables, some holding down stacks of coarse paper filled with inked plans and calculations. An expensive-looking roll of vellum, which looked like the original drafted plans of Hawke House, was set on a seperate workbench and held down with small blocks of marble.

"Jon, what.." Patrick looked at him bewildered. Jon spoke nothing of doing any work for Hawke House.

"Soon. But for now," Jon tugged at his hand. From the foyer, they went up the grand staircase, where the once-yellowing classical statues were now being cleaned, the scrubbed faces of the dead Caesars staring down blindly from their plinths. Patrick could see the curving balustrades that used to be heavy with dust now being wiped down and varnished in sections to show the sheen of the dark wood underneath.

They climbed and turned right towards the east wing first. Jon, it seemed, had planned on a circuitous route around the house.

"My grandfather's portrait used to hang over that fireplace. Crow has found the exact marble—Nero Marquina and Parian, he's told me—to replace the parts that have cracked or fallen off, " Jon pointed. "And here, yes, I think it was here. Father marked how tall David and I grew every summer. Hammer has promised me that he'll remove this part of the lintel to save as a memento." Jon showed the faint scores on the wood in one of the doorways, the names carefully marked in graphite— _Jon, 10. David, 8. 1798._ "Father stopped when we had to leave Hawke House for Gilbert Hall."

Patrick stooped and traced the scratches on the wood with a fingernail, imagining the marquess as a child, back straight against the doorframe. A thought came unbidden—children, blond and black-haired, some blue-eyed, some with Jon's dark eyes. Patrick grew quiet. As the heir, Jon would need to have children too, to carry on the family name. They would be childless, as Patrick knew that the curious alchemy that made some men bear children was not in his blood. Will Jon ask for his one of his own brother's children to foster? If Patrick could go home, he could've asked for one of his sister's children, to be reared as his own.

"Come, I'll show you where we slept as children." Jon tugged impatiently on Patrick's hand. His excitement was infectious and Patrick found himself shaking off any wistful thoughts of children running in corridors and sleeping in lace cradles.

"Here's the old nursery." Jon opened a door to a room where the peeling green-and-white striped wallpaper was being scraped to be replaced with sheets of delicate silk in robin's eggshell blue. Several doors down, he pointed. "And our nurse's room. Hammer has drawn up plans to convert it into an extension of the nursery where the older children might sleep. If..." Jon trailed off, looking pensive. Patrick chewed on his lip. So Jon had been thinking about it too.

Jon swung a set of heavy doors and waved grandly. Patrick looked at the suffocatingly dark cocoon of deep mahogany wood and heavy cloth."The ducal bedroom. My parents never slept here, it was all full of stuffy velvet. I'll have all of that removed, perhaps with something more airy and light."

Jon ducked between more scaffolds and opened several more doors where work, it seemed was in full swing, before their visit. "The music room, the library, the blue ballroom, more bedrooms, all being repaired and remodeled."

Jon kept opening doors and turning keys that Patrick could hardly keep up. Hallways opened to more ballrooms and more bedrooms. Patrick could see the changes where Hammer and Crow had worked, the fresh plaster and gleaming wood beautiful against the dust and workmen's detritus.

After several more halls, they'd circled back to the main ballroom. The sun was already high outside the French doors. Patrick didn't realize that it'd taken them past an hour, just going quickly through the succession of grand rooms in Hawke House.

Patrick turned, his curiosity now piqued. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"Hammer and Crow have been working secretly, at my request, for weeks. I've sent them home, along with their men, so that we could be alone once I show all of this to you." Jon stood beside him, his eyes brimming with excitement. "The count was right. The husband of a marquess and the future consort to a duke shouldn't be made to sleep in the humble rooms of an inn. I've thought about it. Should we move to Gilbert Hall? Or stay in London? Then it came to me—why not Hawke House? What better place to build a new legacy—a new dynasty—than the place where it started?"

Patrick looked at Jon mutely. He'd never once voiced any complaint about staying at the inn because, if he were to confess in the early days of his marriage, he'd never really thought that he'd stay in Blackburg long enough to even call it anything other than a small village in his husband's estate. He'd never envisioned, when he first set foot in Blackburg, that he'd be friends with the man that Lord Bowman chose for him. Let alone end up loving him.

Jon turned towards Patrick. "Say this'll be your home. With me." He raised Patrick's hand, turning it so that he could say the words on his wrist fervently. "With you beside me, we'll fill this place again, I swear it. There will be carpets under our feet, paintings on the walls, and laughing voices ringing up to the rafters."

"You and me?" Patrick leaned until his forehead was resting on where Jon had his hands clasped together. His face was warm and his heart felt like it was full enough to burst from his chest.

"Yours and mine." Jon drew him closer and whispered in his hair, "Ours." Patrick felt the pinch in his heart and suddenly, sure as the sun, he _knew_.

Patrick tilted his head up. "I think you should kiss me."

* * *

Jon, who had mastered every task in Blackburg either by repetition or hard work, curiously didn't know how to kiss.

He kissed, feather-light, tentative, and unsure, mouth closed over Patrick's, his hands carefully cradling his head. He kissed as if Patrick was made from spun glass, delicate enough to break.

Patrick was not. He tilted his head and opened Jon's mouth with the slip of a soft, searching tongue. Jon, feeling the intrusion, groaned and pushed himself against Patrick, hand reflexively tightening on the base of his neck. Patrick led the kiss—a slowly escalating lesson of wet mouths and curious, insistent tongues. Of little bites with careful teeth. They kissed for minutes, the house quiet and still around them. Jon ran his fingers tenderly across Patrick's cheek and under his jaw while Patrick slid his hand across the breadth of Jon's shirt, feeling it slide on the planes of Jon's skin.

Patrick broke away to shrug off his coat and tug at his cravat, silently thanking whatever moved Hartman to tie it using a simple knot this morning.

Jon's eyes were dark, his throat working up and down from the collar of his shirt, as he watched Patrick methodically disrobe. His mouth was red from where Patrick had worried his lips between his teeth.

"There are too many things between us," Patrick breathed. He was down to his shirt and was unsnapping the buttons that closed his breeches, having toed off his boots before that.

Jon swallowed. "Sometimes I've dreamed, fever dreams, where you do what you're doing now," he confessed, his voice soft, but unbearably loud in the quiet of the ballroom. "I wake up and I ache."

"What do you do in those dreams?" Patrick only had his shirt left and was reaching for Jon.

"I touch you." Jon had removed his own coat and shirt and was only wearing his breeches, his braces hanging down the sides. Patrick could clearly see where the front of his breeches had tented, the buttons straining. "Your hands, your face, your lips, your hair."

"And where else?" Patrick had stepped closer, until they were chest to chest, his breath fanning over Jon's collarbones, his hardness pressed over Patrick's own.

"Everywhere." Jon's voice had dropped to a whisper, as if his dream was sinful and Patrick was the only priest that he could confess to. "In all your secret places that I've always wanted to see, the hidden things that I've wanted to taste."

Patrick cupped Jon's jaw, his hand splayed wide and his thumb dragging Jon's mouth open. Jon's lips closed over Patrick's thumb, sucking it sweetly between his mouth. Patrick sighed.

"You've never told me about these dreams." He circled his thumb inside the wet heat of Jon's mouth, feeling the swirl of tongue and the points of teeth. "Show me what you do to me, in those dreams."

And Jon did.

* * *

**The Lichfield Botanical Society which, despite the name, is composed of only three Men, Erasmus Darwin, Sir Brooke Boothby, and John Jackson, has continued to publish Treatises on Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus' work. Mr. Darwin also continues to expand his _Zoonomia_ ; or the _Laws of Organic Life_ , where He explores Pathology, Anatomy, Psychology, and the functioning of the Body, including the mysteries of Male Child-bearing...**

**(Excerpt from _The Botanical Magazine_ )**

* * *

"I am a married man," Patrick announced, slamming the doors open. His shirt was undone, his trousers were probably the wrong side out, and his hair was matted with sweat and dust. He felt _glorious_.

His men, used to years of living with Patrick and deaf to his grand—and often excitable and overdramatic—pronouncements, didn't even look up. Hartman didn't even stir from where he was half-dozing on the settee. Patrick huffed.

"Yes, we know. We didn't miss the ridiculous intertwined initials you've started asking to be embroidered in the lining of all your coats," Hayden said dismissively, not looking up from the books whose flyleafs he was marking. "Also, there was a wedding. With an expensive piece of parchment as proof. I should know, I did your settlements."

"I am a _married_ man," Patrick once again announced, with emphasis, looking meaningfully at the men in the room.

"Stop repeating yourself, we heard you the first time—" Hartman snapped, irritable from being woken from his afternoon nap. He looked up before taking one look at Patrick's disheveled appearance and asking, shocked, "Did you let your husband take you on the floor of that ruin?"

Hartman's reaction spurred on the others to finally pay attention to Patrick.

"How romantic!" Kitty sighed from where he was cuddling Peeksy—fat and wiggling—by the window. Peeksy gave a small yip in protest.

"How dangerous!" Hayden exclaimed, scandalized, ink now dripping from his forgotten pen.

"How _dirty_ ," Hartman tsked, disgusted, quickly standing up to remove Patrick's coat. "That floor is covered in dust and mice shit and whatever foul things have you."

"The duke was a gentleman, he laid out his coat for me to lie on," Patrick said smugly, stepping out from his boots. They were covered in grime and Hartman flicked them aside with his toe. "But he was not a _gentle_ man, after."

Kitty looked delighted. Hartman and Hayden pursed their lips primly. "You're no gentleman yourself. A real gentleman does not _tell_."

* * *

**Lord Bowman,**

**I've Heard the News from Father. Disappointing, as I've always Hoped that my Son take a Wife, but the Circumstances do not allow it. For now.**

**I hope that the Duke's Son does not take His Right as a Husband and, if He regretfully should, that their Union doesn't bear Fruit. You know of my Wife's Family's Blood, of course. It would be an unnecessary... Complication.**

**For Patrick's sake, please see to it, my Lord, that it does not become one.**

**PK**

* * *

Things changed subtly after that. Jon, who'd now learned the pleasures to be had in his husband's arms, was not shy in his intentions. And Patrick, who was more than willing to help his husband learn all these pleasures, basked in the attention.

"Are you well?," Jon whispered to him in between kisses, pulling Patrick behind a stack of hay in the stables once Hossa's back was turned. "From yesterday." Jon peppered his face with kisses before dragging him in again for a deep kiss.

Patrick's body _had_ ached, and Hartman had sat with him face full of disapproval, as he lowered himself in warm bath that night after he and Jon first made love on the dusty floor of Hawke House's marble foyer.

"Stupid," Hartman clucked, handing him a sponge and motioning for Patrick to part his legs and swab himself with it. "You _prepare_ for these things. We're _men_ , we don't have the conveniences in our body like women do to take another man."

"I _know_ that," Patrick huffed. It ached, and Jon had wanted to stop when he saw Patrick bite his lip in pain. But Patrick had hooked his leg over Jon's hip and spurred him on, the pain turning to delicious pleasure once Patrick had adjusted himself to Jon's girth and Jon had set a pace that made Patrick keen with desire.

"If you knew that, then you should've asked your husband to stop." Hartman's voice was muffled from where he was trying to find something in one of Patrick's trunks. "Where are those oils and creams that you bought from the Rialto in Venice?"

"I've given them away to Hayden when he asked for something to smooth his hands." Patrick grimaced as he patted the sponge delicately, remembering how he'd egged Jon on, breathing in his ear to go harder, faster. The ache radiated from his lower body to his back, and he was so sore that Jon made him ride side-saddle with him back to the inn, cradling him in his arms while he sneaked gentle kisses on Patrick's ear and neck. Patrick regretted nothing.

"Those were not for _hands_ ," Hartman shouted, exasperated. Lord only knew why he was surrounded by idiots. Atonement for all those times he'd brawled in his youth, probably.

"What else would they be for— _oh_." Patrick goggled. So _that's_ why Hayden complained that they made his hands too slippery.

"Nevermind, I'll go to London for them." Hartman stood up, closing the chest and dusting his breeches fastidiously. "But until then, restrain yourself. And tell your husband to restrain himself too."

Patrick had meekly promised that night, but now, with Jon's mouth on his neck and their hands inside each other's trousers, all was forgotten.

"I want you now. Again." Jon ran his teeth delicately along the shell of Patrick's ear. "If you'd let me."

Patrick gasped when Jon closed his mouth to suck on the curve of his neck, bending forwards to run his hands over the back of Patrick's thighs and lift him by the crook of his knees. Patrick instinctively wrapped his legs around Jon's waist, clutching Jon's shoulder for leverage.

"I'm sure your husband will let you my lord, but for our sakes—and the poor horses—perhaps you'd choose a place that's not here, in the stables?" Hossa grumped, a tiny lamb bleating under each of his arms and with Kitty and Strome wide-eyed behind him.

Jon startled, dropped Patrick into in an undignified heap on the floor. He blushed and stammered, caught between trying to help his husband up and closing the buttons on his trousers.

"Hossa—Kitty—Strome, I can explain—Patrick and I were talking—"

"I'm sure you were," Hossa said drily. "Kitty was looking for you, my lord. Perhaps you would like to make yourself presentable." He looked pointedly at Patrick's open shirt and the unbuttoned, flapping plackets of his trousers.

Patrick was less flustered than Jon, and unlike his husband, utterly unrepentant. "Kitty, you will tell me _immediately_ what this important thing is, and then leave me in peace to make love to my husband."

"Dylan hasn't found any permanent lodgings since he came here, and I'm wondering if he can stay with me in my room—"

"Who in the world is _Dylan_?" Jon muttered aloud, confused.

Strome raised his hand meekly. "That would be me Lord Toews."

"Absolutely _not_ ," Patrick interrupted. "There isn't a spare bed in your room, Kitty. Jon will give Strome his room, wherever he is staying right now, and he'll move back with me." Patrick smiled beatifically at everyone in the stables from his position on the floor before pointing imperiously towards the door. "There. Problem solved. Now all of you, _out_."

Kitty, seemingly annoyed that his request was thwarted, stomped while dragging Strome with him. Hossa, eyed them both in warning and repeated, "Not in front of the horses" before leaving, the lambs tails swishing as he pointedly shut the door and shouted at someone to "...not let anyone in the stables, please. The marquess and his husband are _talking_ and will not be disturbed."

Once the door was shut, Patrick looked at Jon meaningfully from the floor, leaning back on his elbows.

"Hossa's right, maybe we shouldn't do this in the stables." Jon stood over Patrick, who'd arranged himself delectably for his gaze.

"He's right, we shouldn't." Patrick opened his legs wider, shameless. He hadn't fully buttoned his shirt and his trousers and now his position on the floor made them gape to reveal the skin and slowly-hardening flesh beneath.

"We should move to the inn." Jon shrugged off his shirt.

"You're right, we should." Patrick wetted his lips with his tongue. He stretched his foot to stroke up from Jon's calf, gliding up his thigh before resting on the marquess' poorly-concealed burgeoning erection.

Jon circled his hand around one delicate ankle, using it to open Patrick's legs wider, positioning himself in between them.

"But since we're here, perhaps we could have a short… _talk_?" Patrick raised his eyebrow playfully.

Jon humored him. But as Patrick later found out, it was not short, nor did Jon give him enough breath to talk.

* * *

**With English Manufacturer Matthew Boulton's Death last Year from an Illness, Scottish Engineer James Watt has now partnered with the American Steel and Coal Magnate Donald Kane, to venture into Lucrative Experiments with Steam Road Locomotives. The Venture is costly and full of Risk, and has only succeeded due to the keen Supervision of Kane. There are Rumors, however, of Ill Health...**

**(Excerpt from _The Times_ )**

* * *

"I see that his lordship's back," Hayden said snootily, eyebrows raised as he saw the marquess sleeping facedown, a sheet covering his lower half for modesty.

After their brief liaison in the stables—an experience which left Hossa and Kitty miffed with both of them; Hossa with their carelessness and Kitty with being denied a room with Strome—Jon had shown himself promptly to join Patrick in his evening meal at the inn and, to Patrick's delight, didn't leave after.

It was different now, being in bed with Jon. What was once a platonic arrangement had now turned erotic, and Patrick was glad that the inn's bed seemed sturdy enough to withstand his and Jon's exertions. They slept, sated, and Patrick now found that, for the first time, he wasn't cold, sleeping skin-to-skin with Jon who was warm and pliant beside him.

Patrick, barefoot and already awake, was reading his letters in the morning light. "Quiet Hayden, he's still asleep," he hissed. "What is it?"

"Tired from his vigorous exploits, I suppose?" Hayden said, tongue-in-cheek.

Patrick narrowed his eyes. "Your room is next to mine and if you insist on annoying me this early in the morning, Jon and I could be more… vocal in our exertions tonight."

Hayden recoiled. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I'd dare and my husband would dare along with me."

"You are vile and I don't know why I'm friends with you," Hayden huffed.

Patrick sniffed. "Well, tell me what it is that you want."

"It'd be better if we stepped out of your husband's hearing," Hayden said, now sobered back to being business-like.

Patrick followed Hayden to his room, which unlike Patrick's, was spartan and clean to the point of fussiness, marred only by a writing table groaning with books and paper.

"So you and the marquess have finally consummated your marriage." Hayden gestured for Patrick to sit while he paced around the room.

"That very much is obvious," Patrick said, droll.

"I'd like to remind you that this union is a mere arrangement, Patrick." Hayden looked at him grimly, tone devoid of his usual caustic humor. "Every little eventuality has been drafted in those settlement papers when you started your marriage—from where your dower money goes down to who will get the paintings and the silver—but not this."

"Lord Bowman can't plan everything to fall his way." Patrick shrugged, bored of this conversation already and missing Jon. He should be awake now, and if he isn't, well, Patrick could find ways to wake him up. Delicious ways.

"That might be so, but Lord Bowman didn't go far in the King's court letting things not go his way. He _will_ make sure that all his plans, regardless if they stray from his original designs, fall back his way," Hayden said, cryptic. "Remember that this is an arrangement for your protection, until everything is made right and you can return home."

Patrick snorted. "And when will that be? I haven't received a letter from my family in _months_."

"I don't know, but best to be prepared. You _will_ go home. It's not a question of _if_ , it's just a question of _when_. And when that happens…" Hayden trailed off in warning

"I've laid those hopes to rest, Hayden." Patrick rose up from his seat. He'd long given up the dream of going home. It hurt, remembering his family's promises that they'd do anything to bring him back, but he had Jon now, and Hawke House. "I've been waiting for years and nothing has come."

" _When_ ," Hayden reminded him, opening the door to let Patrick out. "Love and bed him if you want, but leave him you _will_."

* * *

**Madam,**

**We've arrived in London. Once the Business with the Ship is done, I'll call on Lord Bowman with your Letters and Instructions.**

**The haste of leaving New York has made it too late to send My Condolences in Person, as we were already out of Port when I read your Note. I am sorry for Yours and Your Family's loss. Mr. Kane was a formidable Man.**

**Capt. J. Eichel, writing from the _Sabre_**

* * *

On the day before the harvest, Jon took Patrick with him to see the fields one more time before the villagers took to their scythes to cut them down, bundle them in sheaves, and be readied for threshing.

Jon held his hand as they walked between the wheat, Patrick running his other hand over the pale stalks, as far as the eye could see, and marvelling at the men and women who'd labored to plant them.

"The harvest will be more than enough, even with the new people here or coming in," Jon spoke, his face proud. "There will be surplus to sell. It'll be a good winter and the whole of Blackburg will have its bellies full."

Patrick couldn't stop himself from the pride showing in his voice. Jon had worked long and hard, spending hours in the fields when he could with Hossa and his men. "You did good by our people Jon."

Jon shook his head. "No, my love." He squeezed Patrick's hand. "It's you. You came to Blackburg and brought me luck. Everything you've touched has turned to gold."

"Your hand was the first thing I held in Blackburg." Patrick untangled his hands from Jon's to bring his face closer, fingers trailing over Jon's nose and the bow of his lips, sideways down from his neck to the dip of his collarbones. How odd it was that a few months ago, Jon was nothing but a stranger, a tall foreboding figure in a dimly-lit ballroom. "But I don't want you to turn to gold." Patrick planted a soft kiss on Jon's lips. "Gold won't love me, as you do."

* * *

**In a Story stranger than that of the Berners Street Hoax, George Imlach of the British East India Company has been called to Question by Lord Campbell for the appointment of a certain Tarō Tsujimoto as his Liaison for the Shōgun. A separate Inquiry by Lord Campbell has revealed that there was no such Person...**

**(Excerpt from _The Morning Chronicle_ )**

* * *

Hawke House, after years of spiralling down to slow neglect, was weeks away from once again becoming the grand lady of Blackburg. The scaffolds that used to bisect every wall were now slowly being taken down. The sound of hammers, saws, and workmen's voices that used to bounce from every room and across its high ceilings was slowly lessening.

Jon favored the simple lines of William Kent. He abhorred ostentation and had previously dreamed of Hawke House rebuilt to more Palladian lines. But Patrick adored Carlton House and deemed its sumptuous interior fitting for Jon's family's seat. Jon, faced with the limpid blue eyes of his husband in bed, had settled for a compromise—the structure would remain but Patrick could install the most extravagant furnishings to his heart's content. Patrick wasted no time in sending all his furniture down from London as well as dusting those that he'd kept in covered wagons in Hawke House's courtyard from when he'd first come to Blackburg.

"There it is!" Patrick gave a triumphant shout. He held aloft a small rolled rug, bound together by thick rope. "I thought it was lost when we left Vienna."

"Pity, that it wasn't," Kitty muttered out of Patrick's earshot. He still hadn't forgiven Patrick for refusing his request to have Strome quartered with him, but Patrick was slowly dimpling his way back into his good graces by turning his gaze away from any prolonged absences that Kitty had whenever he went with Strome. A fact that didn't endear Patrick to Hayden and Hartman, who were very much keen to keeping the two under their watchful eyes.

Kitty was sorting through Patrick's collection of Fragonards and Bouchers with Hayden, who was muttering about the carelessness of the workmen that had packed the gilt frames.

"Is that the Turkish eyesore that you had commissioned in Malta? The one with intertwined figure eights?" Hayden asked bluntly, as someone who never cared a whit for Patrick's feelings on his soft furnishings.

"The shopkeeper told me the pattern was a precaution against the evil eye," Patrick argued.

"The shopkeeper told you no such thing. You bought it because it looked like two figure eights." Hartman was also in no mood to humor Patrick, as he'd been directing men in moving about Patrick's heavy fauteuils—gilt chairs of the Louis Quinze style—around Hawke House all day. Patrick had a worrying obsession with the year of his birth and adorned it on all his things when he could. ("Two great things were born from that year, Hartzy, the Constitution of our great nation and...." Patrick paused dramatically, "me." Hartman gave him one withering glare and refused to talk to him for the next hour.)

"And so I did, and I don't regret it!"

"I should've thrown that horrid thing in the Wien when I had the chance," Hartman said crossly.

One of the painters on the scaffolding dropped his paintbrush and missed a richly-upholstered bergère by a scant few inches. All three—Hartman, Kitty, and Hayden—looked up to curse angrily. A dark-haired young man smiled sheepishly and called out an apology in lilting Irish from where he was painting a particularly high corner of the room.

"Trevor!" the Dutchman in charge of painting the walls shouted, hands on his hips.

"Your pardon, Meneer Versteeg!" the young man shouted back, before smiling apologetically to Patrick's men and going back to his work.

Hartman hummed at Hayden, who stroked at his chin thoughtfully. Kitty coughed.

Patrick was watching from the comfort of one of his high-backed chairs. He said, amused, "Sharp and Strome won't be pleased that you've replaced them in your affections."

The three snapped their eyes back to him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Hartman barked, shoving Patrick's feet from where they'd been perched over a dainty side table.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about," Kitty said innocently from his seat near the paintings. From beside him, Hayden scoffed, "That chair is ugly and your hair is terrible."

Jon chose that moment to appear from where he was talking with Hammer and Crow about the rooms in the east wing. He offered an open handkerchief filled with sliced and pitted strawberries to Patrick with a smile. "Patrick's hair is beautiful."

All three rolled their eyes heavenward.

* * *

**Several Works by the Landscape Painter Paul Sandby have been rumored to be purchased by Lord Patrick Toews for Hawke House.**

**Now the Talk of London, Hawke House has been opened once again as the Seat of the Dukes of Blackburg-Hawke after Decades of Ruin and Neglect. Cabinets, Bookcases, Tables, and Chairs by Henry Holland, Thomas Hope, and George Smith were sent en masse from London at Lord Patrick's Wishes...**

**(Excerpt from the _Morning Post_ )**

* * *

August was a hive of activity for everyone in Blackburg. Hossa and his men worked tirelessly to make sure that the harvest was done—the threshing and the gleaning—to prepare for autumn and the long inactivity of winter. Hawke House buzzed with last-minute work, with the workmen sometimes staying late into the evening to administer the finishing touches needed for some of the rooms. The success of the Harvest Feast—Blackburg's first in years—depended on the food from the harvest and the completion of Hawke House, where Jon now decided that it would be held.

Jon and Patrick apportioned their time between the fields and Hawke House, their men circling around them. Jon now spent more time in the fields and the farms as much as Patrick did in front of a desk, halving the tasks between them. Jon managed the entire business of the harvest, while Patrick made sure that everything was ready with Hawke House. Each of them rose before dawn and went home late in the evening, the weariness draining their previous amorous energies, managing only to give each other a quick kiss good night before falling asleep tiredly in each other's arms.

As the days to the harvest feast grew nearer, the tensions became more clearer, with men coming to them with numerous problems, big and small.

"We need more grain silos," Hossa reported, his hair dusted with chaff. "All are full to bursting. We've even sent some to Rockford for keeping, promising a small fee for the trouble. But still not enough."

"The Carrara marble won't arrive on time," Crow said, disgusted, slamming his chisel down and startling Delia, who was tooling with the leather belts that the workmen used.

"The oak has warped and is unusable for your bed. Perhaps, my lord, for new balustrades?" Hammer wrung his hands together anxiously.

"The miller's dray horse is lame," Bickell said, while he tiredly scratched Juliette's ears, her remaining puppies running about her. "Mr. Panik is, well, in a panic."

"Build more silos," Jon commanded. "We've never really had reason to before, with the poor harvests, but we'll need it now. There should be a silo to every acre farmed. Take Fraser, Eager, and Hendry with you. Bickell, as for you, calm Panik down and tell him that I'll send for horses."

"See what pieces you can replace with wood, stone, or stucco," Patrick placated a fuming Crow, while also trying to sooth a nervous Hammer. "Yes, for the balustrades. Oak wouldn't match the rest of the furniture anyway. Ask Brookbank to see if we can get rosewood or mahogany."

One particularly taxing day, Jon, while on a round of checking rooms to tally those that remained unfinished, saw Patrick sleeping on a pile of carpets, a bolster pilfered from one of the newly-renovated first-floor drawing rooms tucked under his head and Peeksy curled in a ball near his chin. Patrick was now growing tired easily and his little cat-naps were now becoming more frequent, which worried Jon. He'd insist on Patrick dining and retiring early, taking no work with him to bed, as the strain from their days might be taking their toll on Patrick more than he realized.

"Well, what do we have here," Jon whispered, lifting the pup to him. The puppy stretched and wiggled, and Jon put him down, bending to give him a scratch behind one flopping ear. "Go on, your job here's done. I'll keep him safe." The puppy whuffed and nodded, as if saying _good, I'm off then,_ before trotting to where Kitty and Hartman were, with their coat pockets full of treats.

Patrick was roused from his nap when Jon sat beside him, combing his hair away from his face.

"Hello my love," Jon said tenderly, smiling down at him.

"Who are you, sir," Patrick said, blinking the sleep from his eyes, his grin still sleepy-soft."You might be handsome, but I already have a husband, and he's much more handsome than you."

"You wound me." Jon leaned down, his cheek resting on Patrick's chest, as he looked up at Patrick. "I would say I'm at least as handsome as this husband of yours."

"Impossible. My husband is the most handsome, most dashing, most…"

Jon moved forward and kissed Patrick, a sweet kiss turning deep with intent.

"...virile," Patrick said, breathless. The irises in his eyes had thinned and his pupils were blown black with desire. He languidly swiped his tongue down his lower lip, a calculated gesture that drove Jon mad every time.

"The doors are unlocked." Jon's hand was already tugging at his shirt and the other pulling down his braces, legs bracketing Patrick's waist.

"It doesn't matter, there's no one in this wing." Patrick was up on his elbows, hips raised and sliding sinuously against Jon's own.

"What if someone comes in?" Jon was mouthing at Patrick's neck, tongue flat on the pulse. "Not knowing that I have you flat on your back." Jon bit on his collarbone. "Soon rutting on my cock."

Patrick shivered, as he always did when Jon—polite and correct Lord Toews, voice measured and genteel—spoke in the vulgar way of the Covent Garden scoundrels. Jon had blushed and asked shyly if he should stop when Patrick had first asked about it, after he'd gotten his breath back from a toe-curling release, Jon whispering filthy things in his ear throughout it. "No, I like it," he'd said, peppering Jon's red face with kisses. "I like it when you tell me such things—" He kissed the tip of Jon's nose tenderly before ending it with a playful nip. "—the sweet things and the filthy things."

"I've been quiet at the inn, so they wouldn't know," Patrick gasped, when Jon's mouth had closed on a sensitive nipple. "I don't need to be quiet now."

* * *

**Years after the Battle of Vimeiro, the Parliament welcomes Coronel Tavares of the Portuguese Army and recognizes His invaluable assistance in the decisive Victory over General Junot's Forces that helped put an End to the first French Invasion of Portugal. He will now join several Others in securing His Majesty's Colonies in the Canadas...**

**(Excerpt from _The Morning Herald_ )**

* * *

Days before the Harvest Feast, on the morning of their move to Hawke House, Jon woke up to two pairs of eyes looking down at him.

Juliette whuffed while Peeksy, who was turning out to be a veritable tyrant, stood on his chest and gave a series of short yips, a fat paw stomping imperiously on Jon's breastbone, before pulling down the covers with his teeth.

"Yes, yes, I'm up," Jon yawned, nearly dislodging Peeksy from his chest, who gave an indignant yip. "Sorry, down you go." He scooped up the puppy and placed him on the floor, where he trotted to his basket in the corner and plopped down with a displeased thump. Juliette, less demanding than her offspring, gave a gentle bump on Jon's hand before resting on her paws for a nap.

Pulling on a robe, Jon stretched and curled his bare feet, grateful for Patrick's foresight on the multitude of thick carpets and rugs that were littered around their room and kept the morning chill at bay. He found Patrick sitting in the middle of the inn's parlor, a tray of his own breakfast beside him, forgotten, while he peered over an escritoire overflowing with sheafs of paper. He was with Keith and two men, one with a mop of unruly curly hair in a sous chef's apron and a tall and imposing man with his chef's cap in his hands. Patrick was going through what seemed to be the food to be served in Hawke House, with Keith listening nearby.

"Certainly, the potage printannier, but nothing with wheat." Patrick's eyes scrolled down quickly to the list of dishes itemized on paper. "None of that for our table. Make sure that the kitchen remembers that. Keith please, take note for the housekeeper during market day."

"Of course, my lord," the chef, a man called Duclair, agreed. "Monsieur Campbell, let the others in the kitchen know." They gave their final nods to Patrick, bowing their heads to Jon as they passed him.

"We have no housekeeper," Jon strode in, nodding to acknowledge the two men. "Every single one that we've sent for has either fallen ill or has a wife, child, mother, husband, father, cousin, or small dog that is unwell and has declined to appear."

"You're up early," Patrick smiled at him, before going back to Keith with several quick instructions. Keith bent his head in acknowledgment and left, saluting Jon with a jaunty wave as he went past. "We'll find one, I've made sure to also send word to Rockford."

Jon marveled at how Patrick had eased himself flawlessly into the role of master of Hawke House. Jon—who'd grown up with only a few servants in the early years of his childhood and later, during the lowest years of his family's struggle, was used to serving himself with little or no assistance—was suddenly bewildered at the sheer number of men and women that were at his beck and call. But Patrick felt at ease with it, directing them as he was born to, at the helm of an expansive estate.

"You're better at this than I am," Jon said, kissing Patrick's hair affectionately.

"I learned some of it from my mother's knee." Patrick lifted his cheek, silently asking for more kisses, which Jon gave gladly. "I wish I paid attention to her more, sadly, if I knew that I'd be handling a household as large as yours. Now, what do you think of Chantilly for our table?" Seeing Jonathan's confused stare at the delicately-designed plate he was holding up, Patrick sighed. "You're right, it looks ghastly. I'll send for the Sèvres."

"I'll leave you to it, my love," Jon said, confident, picking a fruit from the bowl. "Just leave the back-breaking work in the fields to me."

"You still need to learn. You can't expect yourself to forever know nothing about running your household," Patrick chided him, while beckoning to the men hovering near the door. "Come in Mr. Manning, Mr. Martinsen."

Jonathan pushed forward a slice of buttered bread to Patrick with a glare. Patrick took two pointed bites before wiping his hand on a napkin and turning to face the two men. "You're to work in the gardens? Good. Now my husband keeps a patch of fruits and vegetables and I'd like it moved..."

Jon took a few more bites before leaving the table, smiling as he did. _My husband_ had a very satisfactory ring to it.

Outside, Paul, the innkeeper, was sad to see his guests of many months go, but consoled himself that there would be enough guests from the feast to fill his rooms again.

"It'll be different without you and milord upstairs," Paul sighed, looking at the chests that were now being hauled out of the inn's door and into the waiting wagons that would deliver them to Hawke House. "I'd gotten used to serving you and your husband. You leaving will be less work, I'd admit, but still."

Jon looked at the innkeeper sideways. Paul had been a constant these past few months, and he'd miss the quiet, unassuming man who'd always been ready to attend to them, whether it be a cool bottle of wine or a hot bath. Perhaps he and Patrick could visit the inn, or Paul could visit them occasionally, or...

Or maybe _permanently_.

Jon grinned, gleeful. Patrick wasn't the only one who could call up good men for Blackburg and Hawke House. So can he.

"About that, Paul…"

* * *

**Drapers in London have found themselves several Hundred Pounds richer in their Coffers with the Purchases of what seems to be nearly a thousand yards of rich Fabrics. They do not say who has ordered such numbers but Rumour has it that a certain Marquess who has found Himself a rich Husband has been very busy in gilding His Family's Seat for His Charming Spouse. One of the Drapers have even said that a Bed—in the style of Thomas Sheraton—and large and sturdy enough to hold even the late Daniel Lambert, is to be draped in Red Silk and gold Cloth...**

**(Excerpt from _The Sun_ )**

* * *

In Hawke House, Jon's parents and brother were installed in the east wing, as well as all of Patrick's men and any guests staying for the feast. Only Jon and Patrick's rooms were in the middle of the west wing, curiously requested by the marquess himself in a sudden rearrangement of rooms while having tea with Hammer.

"But those are the rooms that are farthest from everyone else." Hammer had looked at inked plans that he'd bought with him and then back at Jon, puzzled. "It faces the gardens and is surrounded by at least several corridors and empty rooms. No one would hear if you called out in the night."

Hayden, who was in the room with them, muttered darkly while looking at a smug Patrick, "Thank heavens."

Liveried servants in periwigs and velvet coats flitted about, while maids in neat kerchiefs and starched aprons dusted and wiped down the numerous surfaces. Little Peeksy—freed from Patrick's arm while his master toured the house with the duke and the duchess, and not so little now, as he was getting fat from the spoils of Patrick's plate—toddled around, barking importantly at workmen and servants while his mother looked on placidly from the duke's side.

The duke and the duchess moved from room to room, Patrick showing them the new furniture and conveniences. They were pleased with everything, confiding that the splash color brought by Patrick was in perfect contrast to the sombre marbles that Jon wanted for Hawke House.

"And here, I've asked for the men to put up the Gainsborough's." Patrick motioned to the matching paintings of the duke and the duchess frozen in their youth, facing each other from one adjacent fireplace to another. They were in the grand ballroom and Patrick had felt that it would be fitting as a place of honor for the duke and duchess' portraits.

The duke stared at both portraits for a long time, Patrick waiting expectantly. He finally shook his head, thumping his cane on the marble floor. "This won't do," he rumbled.

Patrick's face fell. "Well, perhaps in the grand staircase? Facing the foyer…"

The duchess patted him. "What he means, my dear, is that it's not us who should be there anymore." The duke nodded to his wife, who had sentimental tears in her eyes. "It should be you and Jon."

Patrick was silent for a while before blinking. "You'd have to pardon me. The workmen's dust has gotten into my eyes," he sniffed.

The duke smiled at him, his eyes also misting. "Damn inconvenient, this dust."

* * *

**Rinne, Kreivi of the Grand Duchy of Finland, along with his young Companion, Vapaaherra Saros, were present in the Duke of Rutland's Hunt. They rode with the Duke's prized hunting Talbots, all keen Predators that could sniff out even the wiliest Prey...**

**(Excerpt from _The Sporting Magazine_ )**

* * *

The night of the feast finally came and it saw a long line of grand carriages on the driveway of Hawke House. Some had arrived the night before, like the Baron Savard and the Comte d' Quenneville, while others had sent word that they'd arrive later, like the Lords Bowman and Colliton.

A sizable number of Fashionable London was in attendance, lured by the curiosity of seeing the revival of one of England's oldest ancestral seats.

"I have missed that eyesore," the Viscount Shaw declared loudly, as he alighted his carriage, his wife at his arm and followed by his friends, eyeing Patrick's carriage where it stood in the driveway. "That ridiculously large thing with its unfathomable shade of blue," he sighed. "Everyday, in London, it offended my senses, but now, I find that I've become rather fond of it. Didn't I say I was fond of it, Bollig?" he asked, turning to one of his friends.

"Ceaselessly and tirelessly," his friend Bollig replied, voice dry as tinder. "It's the only thing that you wrote about in your letters for months."

"Does he never stop speaking?" David leaned sideways to whisper from where he was greeting guests at the front steps with his brother. He'd come down from university and he'd gawked in surprise at the bustling village and the newly-plastered facade of Hawke House.

"No, he doesn't," Jon said, mouth frozen in a smile, before exclaiming, "Viscount Shaw! Welcome!"

In the ballroom, guests milled about, resplendent in their finery. The french doors were opened to the restored gardens, where long tables were set to accommodate the rest of the village. The fireplaces roared and candles were reflected over and over by the array of gilt-edged mirrors placed along the walls.

"I like this painting," Burish told Sharp, while pointing to where Patrick had a recently commissioned portrait of Jon, shirt artfully undone and staring forward in a state of déshabillé. They had been circulating around the ballroom and the open corridors of Hawke House, greeting acquaintances when they chanced upon it in one of the drawing rooms, beside the framed sketches of Orsi and Il Nosadella that Patrick had bought from Florence. "It reminds me of those beautiful portraits by Lely. I feel that it captures the soul, the essence, that _intangible thing_ of what Jonathan Toews really is."

"And that would be what, exactly." Sharp raised his eyebrow, sipping his wine.

"That he loathes buttoning up his shirts."

Both Burish and Sharp looked at each other and cackled.

Elsewhere, Jon, handsome in a dark coat and starched cravat, attended to the guests, either ushering them to different rooms or catching up on news in London. One of the guests that he was speaking with—a young man with a somber face—was looking at him with starry eyes, head earnestly nodding at everything that Jon said.

"Dear lord," Viscount Shaw, catching sight, gossiped delightedly at Bollig. "Our Brandon's making calf eyes at Toews again."

A few tables away, Panarin, back from St. Petersburg, was holding court in the middle of several men, the sheen of their blue coats bright in the lamplight. He scanned the room as if looking for something, before catching Jon's eye and raising his glass in a silent toast. The count was one of the earlier arrivals, and he'd arrived with a large box tucked carefully under one arm. He'd greeted Patrick with his usual warmth and Jon, remembering his and Patrick's quarrel, stood warily to the side. The count had bowed to him as if nothing was amiss before going ahead to link his arms with a chattering Patrick.

Later, he'd cornered Jon in one of the drawing rooms. "I know you haven't always seen me as a friend," Panarin began. Jon looked mollified and started to sputter his apologies but the count held his hand up. "Petya has told me everything and there is nothing to apologize for. It's done." The count slid the box across to him. "Please," he gestured.

Jon opened the box and saw a delicate black and red tortoiseshell clock covered in gilt, diamonds, and rubies. Jon gently turned it around, and on the back, minutely inscribed in gold, were his and Patrick's intertwined initials— _JTPK_.

"You will love him, yes?" Panarin asked.

Jon turned the keys until the date and time were correct, the steady _tick tock_ of the clock loud between the two of them.

"As I will no other," Jon vowed.

Panarin beamed and, after standing up, gripped him in a bear hug and kissed him three times, alternating each cheek. "You're a good man Vanya. You will make Petya happy."

Jon raised his glass to the count and tipped it back, smiling, as Patrick hung on his arm.

"Who was that—ah, Temya!" Patrick waved, nearly hitting one of the new men in the village, Murphy, in the eye. Panarin waved cheerfully back. "Who are all those handsome men seated around him?" Patrick peered. He was glowing in a coat of royal blue silk and gold buttons, his hair curling against his ears. Jon thought him more beautiful than anyone else in the room.

"I don't know," Jon shrugged. "And I don't care." Jon set his wineglass down, pulling Patrick to the middle of the ballroom where the musicians were striking up their instruments to begin a cotillion. Various couples and dance partners had started pairing off, facing each other.

"Is Patty going to dance?" Kitty whispered, horrified. Jon was bowing to Patrick, and Patrick was bowing back. "He _is_ going to dance, oh dear oh dear, where is Hartzy?"

The two men with him looked on in alarm. "Is it such a bad thing?" the younger one, Henri, asked.

"A terrible thing," Hayden butted in, gulping down his wine and then waving his glass at the man before him. "Dominik, my dear, get me some more wine, will you?"

"Should I intervene and spare everyone the embarrassment of seeing my brother dancing?" David said, face impassive, while he spooned some more of the lemon syllabub in his bowl. "Should I rescue Patrick from his husband's tone-deaf clutches?"

The cotillion was in full swing and Jon and Patrick circled each other, biting their lips to tamp down their mirth. Their steps were half a beat late or their turns too fast, arms in ungainly angles. Patrick had started swaying sideways and Jon followed, garnering confused looks from the Lords Ladd and Leddy, who were dancing with their wives.

The duchess, who was deep in conversation with Keith and Seabrook, looked at them dotingly. "Not this time, David," she said, while fondly looking at the pair, who were now shuffling out of tune to a slow semblance of the Viennese waltz, smiling at each other with their foreheads pressed together. "I think your brother has found the perfect dancing partner."

* * *

**Lord P Toews,**

**As named Executor of your late Grandfather's Estate and in accordance with the Deceased's last Wishes, it is requested that You return immediately to New York to be present for the Reading of the Last Will and Testament of Mr. D Kane.**

**Also in Accordance to your late Grandfather's Wishes, you will return alone, as Mr. P T Kane, II.**

**Lord S Bowman will discuss the necessary Arrangements for You to do so.**

**P Brisson, Barrister**

**New York, 1810**

* * *

Jon, carrying a large banded silver goblet—a ceremonial cup given to the family by a grateful Earl of Derby for the family's service during the Wars of the Roses—walked out of the ballroom to the cool night air of the balcony. The servants had opened the french doors wide and Seabrook urged Jon, as host, to make his toasts from the balcony so that the villagers may hear.

The villagers gave a rousing cheer seeing Jon, and he raised his hand to ask for silence. A hush fell over them and Jon cleared his throat before speaking. Lifting the cup, he gave a toast to the villagers and his men, praising each one in turn for their efforts and hard work. "Bloody right, Blackburg!" Crow shouted from one of the trestle tables, to the roaring laughter of the villagers.

Patrick was behind him, beaming in pride when a discreet hand touched his elbow. "Patrick," Hartman whispered urgently. "You must come with me."

"But, Jon's speech," Patrick said, dismayed. He'd promised Jon that he'd be there for all of it.

"Patrick," Hartman stressed, hand already pulling him back inside the ballroom.

"What is it?" Patrick followed Hartman, who was winding through the crowds. From somewhere, Patrick heard someone call his name. He turned to look but Hartman impatiently pulled him closer, until they were out the ballroom and going through the corridors to a lighted drawing room where a man in a somber periwig and rich coat sat in front of the fireplace, his flat eyes staring at it contemplatively. His usual coterie of hangers-on were not present. Patrick noticed that he also looked better now, after recovering from the illness that plagued him during the first year of Patrick's stay in England.

Lord Bowman, prominent member of the House of Lords and the man who held the ear of kings and princes, lifted his arms towards him in welcome. "Ah, Patrick, my dear boy, it's been some time."

He nodded to Hartman, who left the room, shutting the door behind him. Only Patrick and Lord Bowman were left inside the library, Patrick coming forward to sit beside him.

"Lord Bowman, it's been some time. You've called for me," Patrick started, a statement rather than a question.

"Yes, and I'm sorry to trouble you from the celebrations downstairs," Lord Bowman said, apologetic. He looked around. "You've done a wonderful thing, dear child, pulling up this decrepit place back to its former self."

"It wasn't me, Jon—"

"And how is your dear husband?" Lord Bowman asked, suddenly grasping on the subject. "How long have you been married now?"

"Seven months, in four days," Patrick answered, puzzled.

"Hmm." Lord Bowman made a contemplative noise and went back to staring at the crackling fire. "And children?"

"None, and I don't think I can," Patrick smiled, embarrassed. "My family has never—"

"Yes, a cousin on your mother's side," Lord Bowman interrupted, correcting him. "But he died young—carrying his daughter—before you were born and your mother's family never spoke of him again. And frankly, they saw no reason to, as your father's plans for you have always been for a wife, not a husband."

Patrick looked at him, stunned. _So they could!_ Jon would be pleased, Patrick thought, a small frisson of excitement starting. The longing of seeing an empty nursery would be gone. He and Jon could have _children_.

"Would you like to join us downstairs, my lord?" Patrick asked, now more keen on going back to the festivities. He'd promised Jon one more dance for the evening and maybe he could slip it into conversation. Maybe they could even try for a child as early as tonight. But if he'd always could then, _what if_. "I might have to excuse myself back, Jon will be looking for me." Patrick stood up, elation bubbling. He'd talk to Jon and send for a physician in the morning. Men quickened faster, this he knew, and he'd been struggling with feelings of sluggishness, bouts of nausea, and strange pangs of hunger. Maybe, _maybe_.

"Patrick," Lord Bowman said gravely, interrupting his thoughts.

The concern in Lord Bowman's tone gave Patrick pause. "What is it?"

Lord Bowman shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Blood drained from Patrick's face. "What do you mean, my lord? Is it—"

"Your grandfather has passed away." He reached for a small packet of letters on the table beside him and handed them over to Patrick. He stood up, both hands clasping Patrick's shoulders. "One of the last acts that he did before he died was to secure your pardon to go back. The Medfords and the Bellings have withdrawn their charges against you. All is now forgiven."

Patrick looked at him in shock, speechless.

Lord bowman continued, "The _Sabre_ is docked in the Port of London. You will board it to go home when it leaves England in two weeks."

Patrick could feel the room spin, the edges of his eyesight dimming. He sat down heavily in the seat across Lord Bowman's. From the other side of Hawke House, he heard the muffled cheers of the villagers. Jon must be finished with his speech. Patrick wasn't there to hear it.

Patrick closed his eyes, a sharp pain lancing his chest.

"The day you've waited for is finally here. It's time to go back." Lord Bowman placed a hand on Patrick's shoulder. "Your family commands that you return home, as your grandfather's heir, to now take your rightful place as head of the Kanes."


	5. departures

* * *

**Dear Father,**

**I have just arrived in England and I am now under Lord Bowman’s care. He is an excellent Host and has taken Me in like a Son and have treated My Friends as His Honored Guests.**

**I am well.**

**Your Son,**

**Patrick**

**(Sent from England, October 1806)**

* * *

_November 1810, Port of London_

_Autumn_

The captain of the _Sabre_ , a man with drooping eyes and a cap of closely-curled hair called Eichel, waited on the deck, checking his pocket watch. They were preparing to raise the anchor, and within the hour, set sail back home to New York. Sailors on the deck were busy carrying crates and baskets, or dangling precariously from the masts, unfurling sails or pulling ropes. He’d sent one of the newer men, Skinner, to Blackburg to fetch the four most important passengers of the ship. One of them was Patrick Kane, son of the illustrious New York Kanes, who had spent several years travelling across Europe.

Upon hearing the news of their passenger, his officers delighted in recalling all the gossip about the Kane prodigal son. Eichel heard some of the more wilder versions bandied about by the younger midshipmen—elopement with a duke, drinking in the Venetian Carnevale, the object of a duel by a jealous lover, a Russian prince’s kept man—but he paid them no mind. The Kanes owned the docks that built the _Sabre_ and it did not do well to speak ill of a powerful family’s son.

A whistle from the formast top made him look up. A sailor pointed to the wharf where a commotion was building. Two carriages came rattling down, one large and in a bright, eye-catching blue-green while the other was a more sedate red and black, with a ducal crest picked out in gold bas-relief on its side doors.

Four men alighted from the first carriage, conspicuously without any trunks gathered between them, only small leather satchels or rucksacks. They waited for Mr. Skinner’s signal before boarding the gangplank up the ship, the sailors helping them up as they made their way across the rickety makeshift incline. Once they were all on the ship’s deck, Eichel came up to them, taking his cap off.

“Good day gentlemen,” he greeted them. “Welcome aboard the _Sabre_.”

The black-haired man leading the small group nodded his thanks and the rest of the men with him were quiet, only nodding and murmuring their greetings.

Strange, Eichel thought, you’d think they’d be more glad to go home, after years of living away.

* * *

**After several Years, work on the Bell Rock Lighthouse has finally been completed. During its Final Period of Construction, the Lighthouse became a Tourist Attraction and Many People were anxious to see the completion of the Tallest lighthouse in the World, first among them Baron Stamkos, whose ships were struck by Lightning near the Lighthouse’s shores during a particularly vicious Storm. Without any Lighthouse to guide Them, the Ships were swept off to the sea....**

**(Excerpt from _The Traveller_ )**

* * *

_October 1810, England, two weeks earlier_

_Autumn_

It was past midnight before some of the guests started making their way to Jon to say their goodbyes and leave. Some, who’d taken lodgings in the village or were guests at Hawke House, had retired, servants escorting them with lamps to their rooms. The remaining guests had joined the villagers whose merrymaking was still in full swing in the gardens, drinking the kegs dry and toasting drunkenly to Jon, to Patrick, to Blackburg, to themselves, and to everyone around them.

“A beautiful evening, a beautiful house, and a beautiful couple!” Burish swayed, tankard held aloft. He’d stay in Sharp’s house for the night before travelling back to London in the morning.

“And speaking of which, where is your delightful husband? We’d like to make our goodbyes,” a still-effervescent Viscount Shaw appeared at Jon’s left, his friend Bollig sleepily blinking beside him.

“Patrick has probably retired early,” Jon patted Seabrook awake, who’d fallen asleep leaning on one of the kegs, head at an awkward angle. Keith was slumped forward onto the table, head pillowed on his arms.

“Well, let him know that we missed him tonight,” Sharp slurred.

“I will.” Jon espied Patrick’s men at another table, drinking with a much younger set. Kitty was laughing flirtatiously with Strome, while Hartman and Hayden observed them from a few tables over, eagle-eyed, like a pair of dour-faced duenas guarding the virtue of a Spanish infanta.

“Not too close Alexander,” Hayden barked. Hartman took out his pocket watch to pointedly look at the time while saying, “We’ll be leaving in a few minutes, say your goodbyes to Mr. Strome, Kitty.”

Jon shook his head, laughing silently. Leaving the servants to take care of the remaining guests, he climbed up to his and Patrick’s rooms in the west wing, quietly excited at the prospect of their first night in their own room. They’d only finished setting the furniture and bedding today, the heavy oak four-poster that he’d specially commissioned revealed with great pomp to Patrick earlier. Patrick had been delighted at the carved birds and feathers that adorned each bedpost and had reverently touched the foot of the bed where Jon had taken great care to have their intertwined initials picked out in delicately scrolling letters.

He opened the door and saw Patrick sitting on their bed, already stripped down to his shirt, combing absently at his hair.

“You were missed downstairs,” Jon said coming up to him. Unlike before, Patrick had stopped wearing belted robes, now comfortable in only wearing a thin shirt or a fine dressing gown in Jon’s presence. Maybe one of these days he could convince him to walk around unclothed, Jon mused. “They kept asking for you in their toasts, but I’ve told them that you’ve gone to bed.”

“I am easily tired these days, I’m sorry,” Patrick said, rueful, setting down his comb and facing Jon.

“Don’t be, you’ve worked so hard,” Jon said affectionately, taking an errant curl near Patrick’s ear and twining it between his fingers. He’d loved doing that idly while they were in bed, Patrick’s corkscrew curls very much like those of a precious doll’s.

“It’ll be our first night here,” Patrick said, hand straightening the covers under his hand. Jon didn’t know if he imagined it, but there was a note of sadness and wistfulness in Patrick’s voice.

“I’ll certainly miss old Paul’s rooms, but a proper room to call our own is most welcome.” Jon looked around. They could finally speak or laugh or make love freely, without fear of disturbing anyone. They could indulge themselves every night for the wedding night that they missed, months too late.

Thinking about their wedding night, an idea formed in Jon’s head. Taking Patrick’s hand, he led him outside the doors of the room.

“What are we doing,” Patrick asked, baffled, toes curling from the cold marble floors.

“We never did this properly,” Jon said before suddenly hefting Patrick up in his arms, Patrick clinging to him and giving an undignified yelp in surprise. Patrick was a solidly-built man despite his size, but it always surprised him how much bigger Jon was, lifting him off the ground easily as if he weighed nothing.

“Jon, what on earth, put me down.” Patrick was laughing, the sound echoing down the corridors. Jon, after making sure that Patrick was properly settled in his arms, stepped over the threshold of their room with great ceremony and carried Patrick to their bed, where he laid him down gently on top.

“There. Let it not be said that I didn’t abide by tradition for my husband.” Jon smiled down at Patrick, where he was now bracketing Patrick’s head with his arms. He gave small tender kisses on Patrick’s forehead and the tip of his deliciously upturned nose.

“You didn’t need to do that, that’s for female brides,” Patrick said, carding his hands through Jon’s hair, while still shaking from laughter. It had grown over the summer and had started to wave and curl at the end, an errant lock occasionally falling down his brow.

“Oh, is it? I wouldn’t know, I’ve only been married once,” Jon said cheekily. “Or maybe I’ll marry again and do all of it properly.” He looked at Patrick, voice now nervous and shy. “I’ve thought, maybe… how would you like the village church next spring?”

Patrick took in Jon’s anxious face before understanding dawned. Wordlessly, he dragged Jon’s face down for a deep kiss.

“Is that a yes?” Jon said, after he broke away from Patrick, breathing heavy. Patrick was already hurriedly unwinding the cravat from Jon’s neck and popping the buttons from Jon’s shirt in his haste. Jon had his coat off and was throwing his waistcoat aside while Patrick worked on his breeches, hand seeking Jon’s length. Jon groaned loudly at Patrick’s ministrations, head going down for another kiss. Patrick broke the kiss to slide up the bed, legs splaying open in invitation. Jon playfully caught one of Patrick’s ankles in his hand and raised it, kissing the delicate bone before placing open mouthed kisses up his calf and to the soft skin under his knee, ending with a sharp bite on the tender skin of his thighs.

Jon’s mouth was already on Patrick’s cock, when Patrick shook his head and pulled him up. “No, I need you inside me.”

“Whatever you desire,” Jon, voice husky from want, walked up the bed on his knees, spitting on his hand to slick his cock. The small phials of oils and fragrant creams that Patrick used to keep beside their bed in their old room was somewhere but Patrick was too impatient, heels already hooked over Jon’s hip.

Jon lined up his cock to Patrick’s heat, sinking in slowly and tenderly kissing Patrick in apology. “I’m sorry, dearest,” he said, mindful of the burn and the soreness that Patrick would feel in the morning.

“Don’t be.” Patrick gripped Jon’s bicep, shifting slowly to adjust to Jon’s girth, his words cut off by moans as Jon started moving his hips.

Jon’s head dropped down to the crook of Patrick’s neck as he picked up his thrusts, hand flat on the wood of the headboard above Patrick’s head. Patrick’s groans were growing louder and turning into breathy keening, a signal that Jon knew meant he was close. After one particularly vicious thrust, Patrick arched and dug his heels in Jon’s back, and Jon followed soon after, spending himself inside Patrick.

They spent minutes catching their breath, Patrick feeling Jon’s heartbeat hammering over his own. Jon made a move to untangle himself, but Patrick pulled him closer, digging in his heels more firmly.

“No, stay,” Patrick said softly. “I still want to feel you.”

Jon chuckled lowly, kissing the shell of Patrick’s ear. “Give me time to catch my breath and I’ll give you your fill again, and again,” Jon muttered sleepily. “And again.” A few minutes later, Patrick could hear Jon breathing. He’d fallen asleep.

Patrick laughed silently before his laughter gave way to tears quietly sliding down his cheeks. _I love you so_ , he thought, as he pressed closer to Jon, skin-to-skin, his seed drying between them.

There would be no wedding in spring. Lord Bowman had come with arrangements for his voyage back along with the letters.

Patrick would be in a ship across the Atlantic in two weeks.

* * *

**Dear Mother,**

**I have purchased all that I need for My stay. Lord Bowman has assured me that My Sojourn under His Roof is Temporary, and that You have given Instructions that I later move to a Household of My own.**

**I am well. Please send My Love to My Sisters.**

**Your Son,**

**Patrick**

**(Sent from England, October 1806)**

* * *

_October 1810, England, hours before_

_Autumn_

Patrick stared at Lord Bowman, stunned.

His first reaction was bone-deep grief. He loved his grandfather and he, along with his father, had molded Patrick into the man that he was. He’d gripped Patrick’s arms the night that he left for England, teary-eyed but resolute, _I will bring you back home._ Patrick had believed it and clung to that promise, until his family’s letters slowly started petering out to nothing. _But in the end, you kept your promise grandfather,_ he sobbed.

But his mind also despaired. _I’m going home, I’m going home, I’m supposed to feel overjoyed but why does it feel like my world has just splintered to pieces?_

Patrick finally let out a faint word “No.”

“ _No_?” Lord Bowman frowned. He’d expected a different reaction. Shock. And then happiness. Glee. But not outright refusal.

“I can’t leave Jon,” Patrick whispered, devastated, his hand turning his wedding ring anxiously on his finger.

Lord Bowman stared at Patrick before understanding finally dawned on his face. He barked an unhappy laugh and sat down tiredly. “I have schemed and plotted and planned through all these years,” he said, leaning forward with his cane and tapping Patrick softly on his knee. Patrick turned to look at him, eyes now limned in red. “And I was good at it too. So when you came here, I said to your grandfather, ‘He will need more protection and I can only do so much. Let us plan an alliance for Patrick to a grand name, so that if the rumors reach England, no one would dare do anything to him.’ And we found Panarin for you, titled and well-connected, but I saw you grow close and I said, ‘Let us not choose the Russian count. If he opposes our plans, he will be backed by men more powerful than you or I. Let us choose a puppet who can do our bidding, pedigreed but powerless, beholden to us in gratitude. Let us choose the duke’s son’.”

“I followed your plan,” Patrick said, wretched. “I went to Blackburg and married Jon.”

“The _plan_ was that Lord Toews was expected to marry you for your wealth and leave you alone. The _plan_ was that you were supposed to marry him, go back to London, and continue waiting in hope for your return to your family.” Lord Bowman shook his head. “Not… _this_.”

 _This_ was Jon and Patrick’s happiness. Blackburg’s prosperity. The men and women that they had gathered together in this corner of England to build something that they would all have forever. Those had no room in Lord Bowman’s _plans_. Patrick clenched his fists.

“It is unfortunate that you have developed an… _affection_ for your husband, but what of your grandfather’s legacy? And your family?” Lord Bowman pressed. “Have they lost all their importance to you?”

“Do not do this to me my lord, do not make me _choose_.” Tears now tracked freely down Patrick’s cheeks.

“You were told that this day would come,” he sighed, and stood up to slip on his gloves, taking care that the leather was fitted well over his fingers. “I told you that your family would find a way to get you back.”

“I haven’t heard from my family in months! I’ve stopped hoping that I could go back! And if you and grandfather knew this, how could you not tell me? How could you marry us? How could you let me and Jon have this life? Why let us be happy when one day you knew…” Patrick drew a deep breath, angry tears still falling. He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. They were so happy now, Patrick thought bitterly. How could the world turn around and take it all away.

“Lord Toews will be compensated generously. Your family has agreed to let him keep every penny in that settlement in exchange for your return,” Lord Bowman assured him. “They are not unkind, and acknowledge and thank him for what he and his family have done for you.”

“He can come back to America with me.” Patrick was no longer listening to Lord Bowman. No time for that, he had to act. “We have good men here in Blackburg that we trust. He can come back with me and once everything is settled with my family, we can return to Blackburg.”

“Patrick—”

Yes, Patrick thought, he could make this work. They can spend their lives shuttling between England and America. Jon would support Patrick with his family as Patrick had with his. “Yes, once the war ends, we’ll travel—”

“Patrick, you are not understanding me. Your family did not ask for Lord Toews to come with you,” Lord Bowman said, voice tinged with pity. “They only asked for you.”

“But we’re married. It is _binding_ ,” Patrick insisted. “They can’t separate us. A writ from Parliament is needed—”

Lord Bowman looked pained, his normally impassive face now full of sympathy. “Patrick, listen to me, the grant from Parliament has been given. Lord Toews and England were _not_ supposed to be your life. You are a _Kane_. Your life has been planned for you since you were in your cradle. You had an heiress promised to you. You were supposed to be married when you reached your twentieth year. You were supposed to have a wife, heirs, and the keys to your family’s wealth. You were not supposed to be across the Atlantic, in the English countryside, a bridegroom to a penniless son of a duke, and a master to a dilapidated estate. When you come home, you will continue the life that you were supposed to have. And _he_ is not a part of that.”

Patrick looked stricken. “No… Jon _is_ a part of that.”

“He might be for you, but not for your family. I’m sorry.” Lord Bowman hefted himself up from his seat with his cane. “You will take a wife. Lord Toews might do the same. Or he might take another husband. He can go to London, dance in Almack’s or go gambling at the tables in White’s. As for you, in America, you will have some fresh-cheeked young thing that will adore you.” Lord Bowman put on his hat, adjusting it before the mirror before turning to Patrick one final time. “Your life will be as it was always supposed to be. And you will forget that Lord Toews was ever your husband.”

* * *

**George III is once again Overcome by His Malady following the death of His youngest Daughter, Princess Amelia. His closest Advisors have Gathered to Him, except One, Lord Bowman, who has been reportedly seen travelling in haste back to Blackburg…**

**(Excerpt from _The Courier_ )**

* * *

Hartman was the first to be told.

“We’re going home, Hartzy,” Patrick said quietly.

“What?” Hartman asked dumbly. He couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“Grandfather is dead. I am pardoned. We can all go home.” Patrick stood up, taking a packet of letters from the side table and handing it over to him.

“But why are you not happy?” Hartman was confused. The packet of letters was a quarter of a handbreadth thick, and looked as if they were written over the course of several months, or years. “And what about your husband? Is he coming with us?”

Patrick stopped in front of the window, pulling the curtains aside. Outside, Jon was playing with Juliette and Peeksy in one of the gazebos while the gardeners milled about, turning the soil and planting tidy rows of lavender and hollyhocks. Juliette butted Jon from behind, causing him to tumble over. Peeksy, seizing the moment, climbed on top of Jon’s fallen form and howled in victory. The gardeners all guffawed in laughter.

Patrick let the curtain fall back. His heart ached. “No, Jon stays here.”

Hartman could feel that something was amiss.“There’s something that you’re not telling me.”

“They want me to leave Jon.” The curtain, like all the soft furnishings in the house, had been embroidered with his and Jon’s initials at Patrick’s request. Once I’ve left, will Jon keep them or throw them all away, Patrick wondered. “Mother and Father are keen to have me go back as Patrick Kane, of the Kanes of New York. Not Patrick, Lord Blackburg-Hawke.”

“Patrick, are you saying—”

“Now that everything is forgiven, they want me to go back to everything that was supposed to be mine. To who I was supposed to be.”

“And Lord Toews knows this?”

“No.” Patrick had not told Jon anything yet, even with Lord Bowman’s instructions to discuss everything with his husband before he came back with the documents to dissolve their marriage.

His father and mother wanted to turn back the clock, to continue what could have been, if not for the duel that sent Patrick in exile for four years. If Lord Bowman had given the news to him before he married Jon, he would have been the first one waiting at the Port of London, impatient for the ship to carry him back to America.

“But will you tell Lord Toews?”

“I will. I _should_ ,” Patrick said brokenly, “But...” He didn’t know how to. But he _had_ to, sooner than later. The ship carrying him back home, the _Sabre_ , leaves in two weeks. His grandfather’s will had to be read and the business affairs that he left, righted. Investors were already waiting for word from Patrick.

Jon was not the only one whose life was held down by obligations to blood and family. Patrick was, too.

* * *

**Dear Grandfather,**

**Lord Bowman has shown Me around London. I have started learning of the Trade done around Town and have kept my Eyes open for Opportunities. I continually make Acquaintances that could be of good use to Us in the Future.**

**I am well and shall do the Kane Name and You proud.**

**Your Grandson,**

**Patrick**

**(Sent from England, December 1806)**

* * *

Hayden and Kitty were both shocked into silence when they heard. Kitty looked distressed, asking to be excused so that he could leave the room quickly.

“We leave for London in a few days,” Hartman said briskly, hiding his own turmoil under the more familiar motions of managing the logistics for all three of them and Patrick. “A few possessions will do, you can either sell or give away those that you do not mind parting with.”

“But what about everything of Patrick’s that’s now installed in Hawke House?” Hayden asked, alarmed. There was a king’s ransom in paintings, furniture, gold, silver, and porcelain in Hawke House, all thanks to Patrick’s efforts.

“You might have to draft an addendum to that settlement.” Hartman was going through his closet, fishing out his boots and sorting through his shirts quickly. “Patrick says that he’s leaving them all to Lord Toews.”

“And what of the actual settlement?” Hayden pressed.

Hartman stopped from where he was dragging out a trunk from under a bed. “Lord Toews will not be left wanting. All of the settlement will be given to him, down to the last penny. The Kanes are generous in their gratitude towards the kindness of House Blackburg-Hawke to their son, and it will be given in its entirety, absolved from Patrick to Lord Toews, upon Patrick’s departure.”

“Bullcock,” Hayden said flatly, refusing to be fooled. He was a solicitor, he spoke the language of bribery and polite dismissal fluently. “They’re using the settlement to pay Lord Toews off to let Patrick go.”

Hartman changed tactics. “Are you not happy to be finally going home? To return to our families? You had a fiancee and so did I. Think of seeing them again.”

“I am, but not at the price of Patrick’s unhappiness,” Hayden argued. “Who else knows?”

“No one else, just us. For now.”

“And how will we break this news to Blackburg? To the duke and duchess? To _Lord Toews_?”

Hartman honestly didn’t know how they’d explain Patrick’s departure. Patrick’s circumstances on how he found himself in England were known only to a very select few. The marriage was seen by everyone as a love match, and Jon and Patrick’s very public affections towards each other during last night’s feast was seen as proof. “I don’t know, and it’s not for us to worry about.”

* * *

**Wellington has ordered the construction of the Lines of Torres Vedras—three strong lines of mutually supporting forts, blockhouses, redoubts, and ravelins with fortified artillery positions—under the supervision of Sir Richard Fletcher. Part of those manning these lines will be Colonel Matthews and Lieutenant Colonel Marner of the Royal Regiment of Horse Guards...**

**(Excerpt from _The Globe_ )**

* * *

The preparations for Patrick’s departure were being made as swiftly and as discreetly as possible. To Hartman and Hayden’s confusion, Patrick had not yet told Lord Toews of the news from America or his plans. Compounding their worries was the sudden and unexplained illness that Patrick had. He’d suddenly turned wan and pale, crying in odd turns when Lord Toews was not around and had problems keeping his food down. His husband stayed at his bedside, and sent for dishes to tempt Patrick to eat. They were all left untouched.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” Kitty said, apologetic. “Patrick has not eaten any of his food.”

“Dearest, you have to eat,” Jon cajoled, ladling soup on a shallow dish for him. Patrick raised a spoonful of soup to his mouth before pushing it away.

Hartman worried, for the trip across the Atlantic took weeks. Any illnesses, no matter how innocuous, could prove fatal without the capacity of professional medical aid. Ships rarely had doctors onboard, and for those that did, they could only perform the most rudimentary of medical help. The timing could not be more unfortunate.

“Does he need a doctor?” Hartman asked Kitty, following him down to the kitchen.

“I don’t know.” Kitty frowned, returning Patrick’s untouched dinner tray. “All he does is sleep and when Lord Toews is gone, cry. He needs to be well.” Kitty shifted uncomfortably and looked around him, lowering his voice. “For the long voyage back.”

Jon lived in a state of despair. He didn’t know why Patrick had suddenly taken ill. He gave instructions for servants to keep an empty basin and a clean pitcher of water beside Patrick’s bed in case Patrick felt nauseous. He sent up Patrick’s favorite dishes to their room, but they all came down, untouched. Salvers of his favorite strawberries, with pots of cream and chocolate, were also refused. When he heard that Patrick could only keep down a compote of fresh peaches, he’d sent the kitchens to harvest basketfuls of them, to be served up to Patrick in all manner of ways.

He was loathe to leave Patrick’s side for longer than necessary, but Hayden, uncharacteristically, offered to stay with Patrick while Jon was away. Unknown to Jon, this was also while Hartman and Kitty quietly ran through preparations for their departure. Hayden checked regularly for fever and kept the water on Patrick’s bedside replenished.

“I’ve never thanked you,” Patrick croaked, in the rare moments that he was not crying, retching his food, or sleeping. “For saving me that night.”

“I didn’t save you,” Hayden dismissed, but his voice was soft and kind. “I just couldn’t let you die.”

Patrick laughed. “I was not your favorite, even when we were children.”

“No, because you were silly and did stupid things sometimes.” Hayden felt Patrick’s wrists and forehead. “And you beat us in all the games and lorded it over to us when you could.” Odd, Hayden thought, why does he look so ill when there’s no fever?

“I was a terrible child,” Patrick admitted ruefully.

Hayden patted his hand. “You were. But you were never unkind, for all your foolishness, and I’ve always thought that that made you the best among us.”

Patrick’s eyes teared up. “We’ll go home soon, and you’ll be back with your families.”

Hayden felt a little bit of sadness over that, which he kept to himself. He never resented Patrick for their years in exile. Theirs was an odd adventure and it was bittersweet that it had now come to an end.

* * *

**Mama,**

**I cling to my Friends in comfort. They are My only Link back to America, back to Home, in the middle of this strange Country.**

**I’m sorry. You must believe that I did nothing wrong. I am so lonely. I want to go back. I want to go Home. Please Mama, do everything.**

**P**

**(Unsent from Patrick Kane’s escritoire, England, October 1807)**

* * *

Patrick’s health grew worse within the next few days, to the bafflement of everyone. Jon, after days of fretting, had finally set his foot down and called for a doctor.

“Keep to thin broth and the soft parts of bread,” the doctor, a gruff and fierce-eyed man called Bolland, instructed Kitty, who was listening intently. “I will write down some tonics, but give it to him only to relieve the worst of it.”

Hartman was glad that the doctor scorned the idea of bloodletting. Patrick was squeamish of such things, even as a child.

“He looks pale enough as it is,” the doctor sneered, checking Patrick’s pulse. “Opening his veins to bleed him won’t do a damned thing. Is he getting enough sleep?” he asked as he peered at Patrick’s eyes, placing a finger in front of Patrick and moving it left and right for Patrick to follow.

“All he does _is_ sleep. If he’s not crying or heaving in a basin,” Hayden snapped, agitated. “He’s tired and fretful and can’t keep his food down.”

“Has he eaten anything spoiled?” With a muttered permission to Patrick, Bolland pressed firmly around Patrick’s middle, checking for sore spots, of which there were none but for a curious slight distension of the abdomen, almost unnoticeable, except for Bolland’s keen eye. “Does anything hurt, my lord?” Bolland asked, feeling at it gently.

“No,” Patrick said weakly. “But the bones in my back ache.”

“Hmm...” Bolland was frowning.

“Will he be well enough to move?” Hartman asked. And then, carefully, “To travel?”

“Certainly not.” The doctor looked around. “Where is Lord Toews?”

“He’s stepped out, to attend to some business with the estate.”

“He should be here,” the doctor said gruffly, gathering his things. “See to it that his lordship eats, even a few spoonfuls, every two to three hours. And water, lots of it. Fruit if he can manage it,” he directed to Kitty.

He beckoned to Hartman and Hayden, who were nervously whispering amongst themselves. “I’d like a word.”

They led the doctor outside to the corridor where they found Jon waiting, finished with his business with Hossa. Juliette and Peeksy stood patiently by his feet.

“Doctor,” Jon said, anxious. “Patrick, how is he?”

“He is not ill, at least of any illness that I know of,” Bolland guaranteed. The marquess and Hartman showed varying degrees of relief, but Hayden was suspicious.

“What do you mean when you say ‘any illness that I know of’?” Hayden asked, his tenacity as a barrister coming to the fore. “Are you saying that it might still be an illness, one that we just _don’t_ know of?”

“Don’t turn my words against me, young man,” Bolland groused. “What I mean is that outwardly, he is healthy. He doesn’t have a fever and there is no presence of noxious pus or bleeding. But his lack of appetite, nausea, his anemia, we cannot account for. Another doctor might say that he is just suffering from hysterics or melancholia, but I will not. Many men and women have died from such suppositions.”

The doctor placed his satchel on a side table and drew out a small notebook, writing something down hastily with a blunt pencil. “He must not leave his sickbed until we know what ails him.” He handed over the paper to the marquess. “Ask for this man, he might know better.”

Bowing in goodbye to Jon, the doctor left, Hartman and Hayden at his heels, still asking questions.

Alone in the corridor, Jon opened the door to the room gently. Peering inside, he saw that Patrick was asleep, Kitty fixing the lace coverlet over his chest.

“Please be quiet,” Kitty whispered. “Don’t wake him up.” Taking the basin of water with him, he closed the door and left.

Pulling up a chair, Jon sat beside Patrick. He looked so small in the middle of their bed, his eyes now showing faint shadows from too much sleep and too little food.

“I don’t know what ails you.” Jon touched the coverlet near Patrick’s hand, careful to not wake him. “And I worry so.”

He shifted in his seat, mindful of waking Patrick up. The paper, nearly forgotten, crinkled noisily. Carefully spreading the small brown sheet, he puzzled out what the doctor had written in his small cramped letters.

_Brouwer, Man-midwife. See urgently. Lord PKT possibly with child._

Jon stared at the piece of paper, mouth falling open in stupefaction. But before he could wake Patrick up, a soft knock came on the door, Hartman’s uncharacteristically sombre face peering from the open gap.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, but Lord Bowman has arrived and asks for you.”

* * *

**Captain Bernard Dubourdieu has landed Seven Hundred Italian soldiers on the Island of Lissa while Captain William Hoste searched in vain for Dubourdieu’s French Squadron in the Southern Adriatic. The Island had been left in the command of Two Lieutenants, Barzal and Eberle, who withdrew the entire Population of the Island into the Central Mountains along with their Supplies...**

**(Excerpt from _The Star_ )**

* * *

Lord Bowman was still in his riding clothes, the dust from the road still on his coat, when Jon found him in the library. He was idly reading through the books that were stacked on one of the tables, waiting to be catalogued by Hayden, with Strome’s help, and placed on the shelves.

“Lord Bowman, this is... a surprise,” Jon said, puzzled but mind still distracted from the words on the small piece of paper. _Possibly with child._ Dear God. Patrick said that he didn’t have the blood… or did he say that he was _not sure_ if he _had_ the blood? Jon couldn’t remember. He only knew less than a handful of men who could bear children in his entire lifetime, with the blood being so rare, and with these men either treated with reverent fascination or as bizarre objects of curiosity. But, _God_. If Patrick really did have a child growing inside of him, Jon would have an heir, born of his and Patrick’s blood. Hawke House would have a new dynasty under its roof.

Jon was so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t noticed that his unexpected guest had posed a question to him and had been waiting for his response for some time.

“Lord Toews, is everything in order? Do you have Mr. Sharp with you?” Lord Bowman asked again, louder this time.

“Yes, I’m sorry Lord Bowman… I’ve just received some news… Patrick…. I’m sorry, but I haven’t asked, to what do I owe do this visit?” Jon hastily scrambled to collect himself. “And Sharp? For what purpose, my lord?” he queried, confused, desperately trying to follow what Lord Bowman was saying. He didn’t recall Patrick, or anyone, telling him of Lord Bowman’s visit that warranted Sharpy’s presence.

Lord Bowman blinked, a perplexed frown on his face, before it smoothed away to its usual placid mask. “I see,” he said mysteriously. A pause before he asked again, “And where is your husband?” Beside him, Jon could see that Lord Bowman had put down a thick leather folio containing what looked like several sheafs of parchment.

Jon, still mystified as to why Lord Bowman was in his library unannounced, was glad of the change into more familiar topics. “Patrick…” _Is with child_ , Jon thought giddily, but stopped himself. “Has been ill these past few days. He’s taken to his bed and is resting.”

“Has he… told you any news about his family?” Lord Bowman said, words careful.

He remembered the doctor’s note and Jon leaned forward excitedly. “Lord Bowman, may I ask something about Patrick’s family?”

Lord Bowman asked, voice quiet, “What about them?”

Jon, not noticing Lord Bowman’s tone, went on, “After days of seeing Patrick being ill, I sent for a doctor. He examined him and found something... most curious. When I married Patrick, I knew nothing about him, nor his family—only his name and his wealth. I’ve never known if the men in their family could carry children and when I first asked him, he said he couldn’t, or maybe he said he didn’t know, I don’t remember, _but now_ ,” Jon laughed, heady with joy, “Patrick has given me so much but here he is, giving me _more._ ”

“I’m not following, Lord Toews.” Lord Bowman’s brow was beetled together in confusion.

“Patrick might be with _child_!” Jon grasped Lord Bowman’s arm breathlessly. “We could have a daughter or son in a few months! Or weeks, I don’t know, how long can men carry their children...”

Lord Bowman was now deathly still. “Are you _certain_?”

“We’re not yet sure, the doctor has asked that we send for a man-midwife—”

“Send for him _now_ ,” Lord Bowman commanded. He took the folio from the table and opened the door to Hayden, who was outside the library’s threshold, looking as if he’d been waiting outside for some time.

“Lord Bowman.” Hayden bowed, hand ready to reach for the folio. “Would you now like me to go over the settlements?”

Lord Bowman was about to hand them over before he hesitated and brought it back under his arm. “No, not yet.” He nodded to Jon. “I hope you don’t mind that you now have a guest under your roof Lord Toews.” With an imperious tap of his cane and a swirl of a frock coat, Lord Bowman left the library, Hayden trailing after him.

* * *

**Father,**

**I’m sorry for disappointing You.**

**P**

**(Unsent from Patrick Kane’s escritoire, England, August 1807)**

* * *

“Our insides and bones may be formed differently from those of women but, barring the differences in the outside flesh, some men _can_ have children,” the man-midwife, Brouwer, explained, as everyone in the room stared at him in shock when he’d announced the news. Lord Bowman, sitting in the corner, remained impassive. “And it seems my lord here is one of them. Congratulations, Lord Toews, you will have an heir in four or five months.” Brouwer bowed to Jon, who beamed at Patrick. Patrick smiled back weakly.

“But where will the child…” Kitty had stammered, wide-eyed. “Surely it can’t _be_.”

“ _No_ ,” Brouwer said with emphasis, tamping down any ignorant assumptions in the room that the men might have about the child’s birth. “There will be a surgeon once the time comes.”

That prompted another round of noisy questions from Hartman, Hayden, and Kitty. Only Patrick and Lord Bowman remained quiet. Patrick, sitting still on the bed, gripped Jon’s hand beside him. Lord Bowman finally thumped his cane to announce, “Gentlemen, can you all leave, please?” He raised his voice to be heard above the voices of Patrick’s men. “Lord Toews, I would like a word with your husband. Mr. Brouwer, if you could stay with us and Patrick?”

Jon, still exhilarated from the news, was loathe to leave Patrick’s side, but he acquiesced to Lord Bowman’s request. “Of course,” he said, with a kiss to Patrick’s temple. “I’ll be waiting outside my love.”

“I have some questions,” Lord Bowman started, when everyone had left.

“Please, my lord, ask away,” Brouwer inclined his head.

“Can Patrick cross an ocean in his.... condition?”

“No,” Brouwer said without preamble. “If he falls ill without access to a surgeon and proper medical care there is significant risk to both him and the child.”

“And if he remains in England?”

On the bed, Patrick gripped the covers.

“Then he and his child have a chance.” Brouwer was writing down some concoctions to help Patrick as well as instructions—no tight waistcoats or breeches, no activities that would exert or tire, nothing that would cause grief or sudden moods.

Patrick stared down at the lace coverlet. _Point de Dresde_ , he remembered distractedly, made specially for his and Jon’s bed, a stark contrast from when he and Jon first made love and their only bed was the filthy ballroom floor. “Only a chance?”

Brouwer looked up from where he was writing his prescribed tonics and activities. “We are men, my lord. I don’t know why nature deemed that some of us could bear children when we are clearly not as greatly equipped as women,” he said, shaking his head. “But yes, a chance is better than an almost sure death on a ship.”

Patrick was silent for some time. Brouwer finished his note, placing it on Patrick’s bedside table. “That’s for you, but I’ll also speak with your lord husband and your men as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brouwer. Can you give your instructions to my lord husband please?” Patrick leaned back on the pillows, twisting the ring on his finger. He now noticed that it was the only ring that he wore, eschewing his more costly rings for the plain silver signet.

Brouwer bowed, opening the door to let himself out.

“A child,” Patrick said, voice hollow. “Once again, Lord Bowman, I have done something to further ruin your plans.”

“That… you have,” Lord Bowman sighed. He stood up and walked closer, stopping to stand and look out the window beside Patrick’s bed. The room faced an expansive garden that was once an unkempt wilderness, now tamed into manicured lawns. There were pools, fountains, and artificial streams that ran through it, with elegant Italian marbles and homey gazebos scattered tastefully. Lord Bowman knew that these were all made under Patrick’s direction to please his husband. He’d heard about the other things that Patrick had done for his husband’s estate as well and knew why the Kanes wanted him back badly.

“When you came here, you had just lost your home and the life that you could have lived. Even though you said nothing, I knew you blamed yourself and dreamed and hoped for the day that you could return,” Lord Bowman recalled. On the bed, Patrick wiped a tear with the back of his hand. “But as the months and years passed by, I saw you slowly lose hope.”

Lord Bowman remembered how, in his first few months in England, Patrick impatiently waited for letters from his family, even bribing the Bowman servants to let him be the first to know once the post came. His face lit up when he read them, and he’d read them aloud to anyone who would sit still long enough—from his men, to the Bowman children, and even the servants. He constantly wrote letters to his family, the secrétaire in his room overflowing with paper.

But when the letters for him came fewer and farther in between, with his parents and grandfather choosing instead to send clandestine letters to Lord Bowman for news of their endeavors to bring Patrick home—Patrick diverted his attentions to travelling with his men and socializing with his friends and acquaintances to forget his hurt and homesickness.

“But when you married Lord Toews that was the first time that I saw you stop wishing to return. I should have known then that you’ve made Blackburg your new home, and this was now the life that you wanted to live.”

Lord Bowman was, at first, curious as to why Patrick had not come back to his Grosvernor townhouse. He’d given it a day or two before Patrick tired of the dull countryside and the very simple refinements at Blackburg. As the weeks rolled by, Patrick’s carriage was still not at Grosvernor, but the rumors had started filtering back to London—how Lord Toews and his husband were rebuilding Blackburg and Hawke House.

Patrick remained silent. Lord Bowman continued.

“Did you know that your family never stopped in their efforts to bring you back? Your mother pleaded for me to never tell you because they didn’t know if they would ever succeed. When I kept their plans from you, at their request, the guilt ate at me so much that I made sure that I did everything in my power for you to be safe here in England while I worked with your family for your return.”

“You never told me this,” Patrick said quietly.

Lord Bowman glanced at him and smiled ruefully. “That’s how my plans succeed. When no one knows about them.”

Patrick looked back at him, but this time he was now defiant, his right hand protectively over his middle. “I know of _this_ plan. And know that it will now _never_ succeed.”

Lord Bowman grinned, mirthless. “Yes. You can never leave now, with your child. And even if I send you home, Lord Toews would’ve followed you to America. He’d leave everything. His family, his name, this house, and all the wealth that you gave him.”

“So what will you do now?” Patrick challenged.

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know. I never really know what you’re thinking, my lord.”

“Good,” Lord Bowman said, turning back to stare out the window. “Because I have another plan.”

* * *

**King Frederick VI of Denmark has declared the recovery of Anholt, a small Danish Island off the coast of Jutland, to be the highest Priority and has given Orders for the collection of the necessary Troops and Gunboats to Oberst Eller and Oberstløjtnant Bødker. Both will be under the overall command of General Tellequist...**

**(Excerpt from _The Statesman_ )**

* * *

Hawke House was just waking up. Only a handful of servants walked about, preparing the house for the day, opening drapes, and bringing in covered tureens of food to put on the sideboard for breakfast.

Jon, after getting very little sleep from watching over Patrick the entire night, had been woken up by Hartman who was apologetic but insistent, asking if Jon could wake up as Lord Bowman wanted to speak with him on a very urgent matter.

Jon had tiredly shuffled down the corridors. Servants bowed and curtsied as he went past, and greetings of effusive good mornings followed his wake. Jon awkwardly went past them, remembering how Patrick had laughed at him during their first few days in Hawke House.

“I’m not used to all this bowing and scraping,” Jon confessed, embarrassed. “We never had this many servants when I was a child.”

“We had about this many,” Patrick said breezily, going past a flock of young maids who all dropped to a deep curtsy when they saw Patrick and Jon. “And for Hawke House, we need more.”

“More?” Jon asked, alarmed. There were four manservants that helped him dress that morning and there were at least half a dozen in the dining room every time they ate. Jon heartily believed that Hawke House now had enough servants as there were villagers in Blackburg.

“More,” Patrick said firmly. “From the moment that we wake up to the last hours of light in this house, a million things need to be done—why, that shirt alone needs to go through eight women so that it would look as clean as it is.”

Jon looked down at his shirt. It was, indeed, very clean and well-pressed, the collars and sleeves starched.

“To have fewer servants would mean overwork and overwork means things not getting done right,” Patrick lectured him fondly as they turned around a corner to go to the gold salon. “But leave the boring business of these things to me, my love, and go back to your horses and fields. I’ll worry about Hawke House.” Patrick kissed him soundly before turning his back and opening the doors to the salon where a bookkeeper that he had sent for from London had just arrived. “Ah, Mr. Foster! Just in time! I have an emergency that I need your help with!”

Patrick might have said that he would worry for Hawke House, but Jon certainly worried for him. Doubly now, with their child. Outside of the people in their room yesterday, no one knew that Patrick was now _enceinte_. The announcement can come later. What was more important was for Jon to assure Patrick’s return to good health.

After hearing the man-midwife’s news and leaving the room at Lord Bowman’s request to speak privately with Patrick, the first thing he did was to turn the kitchen upside down, which nearly drove Duclair and his sous-chefs mad. The chef had later ended up with his hands thrown up in the air, exasperated. “My lord, if you’re going to return here every time to change the dish being sent up, dinner will _never_ be served.” He assigned two _chef de parties_ —Vermette and Desjardins, with some young _commis_ to help them—to be tasked to cook anything that Lord Toews might want sent up for Patrick to eat.

Jon spooned food and poured possets for Patrick, wanting him to be in excellent health for his sake and the child’s.

Lost in thought, Jon didn’t notice that he was already in the east wing, in the suite of rooms for the guests.

“Good morning, my lord,” Jon made his greetings, mustering up some energy for Lord Bowman.

Lord Bowman had already eaten his breakfast and was going through a sheaf of parchments. Jon idly noticed that the folio from yesterday was back, but this time its contents were arranged in neat piles across a side table. A servant poured coffee and tea in small cups, before bowing to both of them and leaving.

Lord Bowman waited for the servant to leave before acknowledging Jon. “Ah, Lord Toews. Just the man that I wanted to see.”

“Patrick’s grandfather has secured his pardon,” Lord Bowman said without preamble. He handed Jon a folded letter that was addressed to Patrick, the tear-stained words written by a delicate hand. _He did not rest, dear boy. It broke his heart when you left and he spent all his time trying to find a way to get you back home. Your grandfather, the proudest man that I’ve ever known, even went to Tom and Harry’s families to ask for their pardon. His health failed. The businesses suffered when he left it to the hands of incompetent men. But all of this is nothing compared to bringing you back. Please come home. You are a Kane, and England is not your home. This is your home._

“But you said he couldn’t,” Jon spoke after a fraught moment, letter crumpling in his hands. “You once said that there was a law in place that says he can’t go home.”

“His grandfather spent his last days writing letters to every important man that owed him favors so that Patrick could come back. An American ship will leave days from now. The _Sabre_. The captain is expecting Patrick for the voyage back to New York.”

“Do you expect that he will leave, just like that?” Jon looked at him in disbelief. “Did you not hear what the man-midwife said? He is with _child_.”

“His family wants him back because they need him, Lord Toews.” Lord Bowman looked at him steadily. “His family is in mourning and their businesses might be in shambles—”

Jon stood up from his seat, rattling the table between them. “I refuse, we will go once he gives birth,” Jon insisted, dismay turning into anger, as he paced in front of the fireplace. “This also gives me time to settle everything here in Blackburg. We can go when—”

Before he could say anything further, Lord Bowman stood up and took a sheet of paper from the piles on the side table and placed it squarely on the small table that was in front of Jon.

“The Kanes did not ask that you join him, I’m afraid.”

Jon glanced at parchment and the words written on it before paling in anger.

“At the urging of Patrick’s family and using my influence in Parliament, I procured a grant for the quiet dissolution of yours and Patrick’s marriage without the need for any lengthy public trials in the courts. They want him to leave England free from your marriage. You only need to sign this parchment, and even before the ink dries, your marriage would already be null.”

Jon, now fully awake, looked as if Lord Bowman had slapped him across the cheek. “I will not sign it,” he gritted out, jaw set.

“Good,” Lord Bowman nodded, satisfied, as if expecting the response. “Because there will be no divorce.”

Jon looked at him sharply, still angry, but also now confused. “Then why tell me all of this?”

“There are now additional clauses in your settlements which would hand over not just Patrick’s dower wealth, but also the paintings, silver, and furniture that Patrick has installed in Hawke House, if you agree to divorce him. The Kanes understand that Patrick’s freedom might be expensive, but it doesn’t matter to them. They want him free of his obligations to England. _To you_. They think that nearly a million pounds should be enough to appease you, his husband of seven months. Or so they thought.”

“What are you trying to say?” Jon’s patience was wearing thin. “I have very little rest from taking care of my husband, Lord Bowman. You’ve just arrived, unannounced, to stay under my roof. You’ve just told me that my husband has to leave me. _Now_ you give me a writ of divorce but say that there _won’t_ be one? My courtesy and hospitality can only be taxed for a little while longer, my lord, before I say, or do, something that I might later regret.”

Lord Bowman smiled, that flat-eyed, unblinking smile that both his allies and enemies in Parliament had found unnerving.

“Lord Toews, I would like to propose a trade.”

* * *

**Dearest E,**

**There is a Man that My Heart has foolishly and madly Fallen for.**

**P**

**(Unsent from Patrick Kane’s escritoire, Blackburg, England, May 1810)**

* * *

_November 1810, Port of London, days later_

_Autumn_

“Mr. Skinner will show you all to your cabins,” Captain Eichel said briskly, walking ahead of his passengers and showing them around the _Sabre_. “All of you will be my guests and you will be dining with me during the rest of our voyage.” He noticed that one of the men, a small one nearly swallowed by his greatcoat, had wandered off to the foredeck and was looking at the second carriage that was still parked at the port, waiting for the ship to raise anchor. Eichel could just about see the shadow of a man sitting inside, still within its dark confines.

“If you could all follow me please,” Skinner said to the four men cheerfully. Only one of the men followed him, his hangdog, sleepy look belying his pleasant face.

The other two, a handsome man with dark hair and a tall blond man, joined their friend on the foredeck and stood with him until they raised their anchors.

“Mr. Hartman, Mr. Hayden, if you would follow Mr. Skinner below decks as well, please,” Captain Eichel requested.

“Can you both stay until we’re out in the sea,” their friend in the greatcoat said beside them, voice wistful.

“Of course.” Hartman, clapped his companion on the back, gripping his shoulder in comfort. “Captain Eichel, I’ll trust you and Mr. Skinner regarding our accommodations. We’ll just be with our friend here.”

“Of course, and,” Captain Eichel cleared his throat delicately. “Mr. Patrick Kane? I’ve been given instructions about making sure of his comforts on his way home.”

The blond man, Hayden, smiled. There was a small folded square in his coat’s breast pocket, a letter in Patrick’s elegant hand. “No need, Captain Eichel. He’s not going home. He _is_ already home.”

Captain Eichel stared at him quizzically for a few minutes before nodding. He turned, shouting for the bosun, and disappeared with some of his officers to the quarterdeck.

“Well, I’ll miss you, you silly fool,” Hayden said, voice light, but his eyes were suspiciously wet. He turned and left the foredeck, heading in the direction of the cabins.

 _Good bye, Patrick._ Hartman swept his eyes over England’s horizon one last time before also turning his back and following Hayden. “Come, Kitty, let’s go down to our cabin. Yes, _our_ cabin, because if you think I will allow you to share a cabin with Mr. Strome, then you are sorely mistaken…”

* * *

**The second National Census has revealed that the Population of England and Wales has increased in Ten Years by over a Million to more than Ten Million. We have heard, Dear Reader, that there might be One more, with the News of an Heir for Lord Toews, Marquess of Blackburg-Hawke and his Beloved Husband, Patrick, Lord Blackburg-Hawke...**

**(Excerpt from the _Lady's Monthly Museum_ )**

* * *

Jon stepped down from his carriage to a quiet and dark house. The servants had already retired and the candles and lamps were either put out or dimmed. Patrick had reprimanded him that tapers, oil, and beeswax were costly, so he had requested Paul to make sure to only light the rooms that needed them.

Seabrook waited for him in the courtyard, a small oil lamp in hand. He accompanied Jon up to his and Patrick’s room, where he made sure that everything was in order from Jon’s trip to the Port of London.

“Jon?” Patrick called out, the light from the lamp waking him up. Beside him, Peeksy stirred, raising his head to open one bleary eye to look at Jon before dropping his head back to sleep.

“I’m here dearest,” Jon removed his coat and said his good nights to Seabrook, who lit some of the tapers in the room before leaving. He’d stayed to keep an eye on Patrick in Jon’s absence. However, the hour of Jon’s arrival was late, as the marquess had to rest the horses halfway back to Blackburg, so Seabrook would be staying in one of the rooms until he left for his own house in the morning.

“Did you see them to the _Sabre_?” Patrick asked, yawning. He still slept most days and his constitution was still very delicate. But they’d learned what he could take to keep his food down and to keep the nausea at bay. With their room near the gardens, Jon had plans on converting one of the empty rooms beside theirs into a solar for Patrick, so he could walk around and get some exercise and fresh air every day.

“Yes, I did.” Jon was nearly down to his drawers and his shirt. He took his favorite robe from the back of a chair, sliding into the silk and belting it loosely in the middle. The nights were getting colder, with winter fast approaching. He’d see that there were braziers and heating pans for Patrick, who, normally chilled by the slightest cold wind, was now doubly sensitive to the temperature.

He sat down to eat his dinner, set at a small table in their room. Some of it was half-eaten, probably by Patrick. Jon smiled. That was good, a sign that his appetite was returning. “Though Hartman set me aside to ask if I could stay in the carriage, with Kitty and Hayden already quite downcast even while leaving Blackburg.” He scooped up some of the fruit drizzled in honey, chewing on a particularly crunchy cube of cantaloupe. They were harvested from his own vegetable gardens so they wouldn’t need to pay the additional expense of purchasing fruits from the market or sending them down from London. “Both had asked him that I not say goodbye to be spared from their tears.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go.” Patrick was now standing up, wincing as he stretched, padding to where Jon was seated.

Ignoring his dinner for now, Jon reached for Patrick’s hand, dragging Patrick to him to drape on his lap. Patrick nuzzled into Jon’s neck, leaning into him and closing his eyes. “I’ll miss them,” he murmured. “I miss them now.”

“Kitty, Hayden, and Hartman didn’t leave the deck until the ship was out of sight.” Jon ran his hands gently down Patrick’s side in comfort. He was nearly past the first month, and from then on, it would be quicker. Six to seven months, they were told. Four or five if the child was big. The man-midwife, Brouwer, explained that the child had to get out as quickly as it can, or risk the rupture of some of Patrick’s organs from the pressure of the child growing inside him. Jon was fretful, but Patrick seemed to take it in stride, only asking if he could perhaps have a tailor re-fit his shirts and waistcoats, so that he wouldn’t have to purchase new ones. Brouwer, indifferent to the follies of the aristocracy, instructed him sternly—keep to loose shirts and belted robes.

Patrick shifted to a more comfortable position in his lap, pillowing his head on Jon’s shoulder. His middle was getting thicker and the bones in his waist, hips, and back ached most days, and they sometimes needed warm cloths to soothe him to sleep.

“Your son is a nuisance,” Patrick groaned in the crook of Jon’s neck as his husband massaged the gentle bones in his wrist.

Jon laughed, “She could be a daughter.”

“A _son_ ,” Patrick murmured. “And probably as tall as you, judging from how fast he’s growing inside me.”

Jon smiled. _Son or daughter, he would be glad either way._ He tangled his fingers with Patrick’s, rubbing slow circles on the back of Patrick’s hand with his thumb to soothe him back to sleep.

“You have beautiful hands, elegant and tapering. I can see them wearing rings,” Patrick said, voice sleepy, as he idly played with Jon’s fingers and twined them in his own. “Gold, yes, and beautiful rings of cabochon rubies or onyx...”

Jon smiled sadly. “In a few years maybe, once Blackburg has righted itself and we have the money...”

Patrick stiffened and straightened up, untangling his hands to cup Jon’s face, “Do you regret it?”

All the hectares of land, the cattle, the properties bequeathed to Patrick in New York and New England, the future income from coal and steel mines, the mills and paper factories, the shares in the railways, the shipping interests—Jon had given them back to the Kanes. Lord Bowman was with him while he signed parchment after parchment, his hand cramping from holding the pen between his fingers.

“What about the money spent on Hawke House and its contents? What of the funds spent on Blackburg and the estate?”

“They will be left as they are.” Lord Bowman was carefully checking each parchment to make sure that Jon had not missed a single one. “The Kanes might not care if you were left with not but a single bent coin to your name, but for Patrick, even they would not be so heartless as to see him and his child live in complete penury.” Once everything was to his satisfaction, Lord Bowman tidied them in a neat stack to be brought to his solicitors in London.

He was slipping them inside the folio when he suddenly chuckled. Jon looked at him curiously. Lord Bowman said, voice dry, “It seems that you are back to where you were, Lord Toews, when we started this entire enterprise. You’ve traded everything away. Once again, you have nothing.”

“I have Patrick by my side. I’ve gained everything.”

When he’d told Patrick, he’d shakily taken Jon’s hand and cried while laughing, saying _you foolish man, you foolish foolish_ foolish _man._

 _You’re wrong, Lord Bowman. I’ve won. I’ve traded away nothing._ Jon kissed Patrick softly, hefting him up to carry him back to their bed.

“No, my love. There will be no gold rings for me. I’ll just wear your hand in mine.”

* * *

**Dear Mother and Father,**

**I write from Hawke House. It’s Autumn and the Leaves are beautiful outside my Window. Not as beautiful as the Oaks and Red Maple that grow outside my Bedroom, but something very close.**

**I write to ask for Forgiveness. I write to ask You to go to Grandfather's Grave and lay Flowers for Me. I will remember Myself a Kane and My Children will never forget where half the Blood in their Veins has come from. But the _Sabre_ sails without Me, because I have found My place here. **

**I am Home.**

**I will be forever and always Your Son,**

**Patrick**


	6. epilogue i - letters

* * *

**John,**

**Thank You for Your Letters. They amuse Me, as there isn’t much to do when One is a retired Barrister. My dear Burish suggests Editorial Work in one of London’s Journals, as He has told Me that our Observations always garner a good Crowd. I shall consider it.**

**As for Observations, Count Panarin has once again paid a Visit and gifted little Alexandre with a Child’s Troika, drawn by a gentle Pony. Jon, not to be outdone, has asked that Crow and Hammer build His Son a Miniature Version of Hawke House, complete with furnished Rooms. Little Alexandre’s Gifts are now housed in a Different Room, when the Duke and the Count gave Him both the Battle of Trafalgar _and_ the Battle of Waterloo for His first birthday. Their little Contests are _delightful_ and remain a _constant_ Source of amusement for Me. **

**Patrick no longer frets over His Husband and His Dear Friend’s rivalry, as the wily Creature has now used it as an opportunity for Him and Alexandre to be showered by competing Gifts. A smart Man, Our Patrick, as always.**

**Your Friend,**

**P Sharp**

 

**Hello My small Cat Friend,**

**I’m sorry if I haven’t written to You sooner. I’ve quite forgotten that You wrote to Me and imagine My surprise when I found this Unfinished Letter between one of My Ledgers. Escaped My Mind, if You can imagine.**

**Philippe has just learned to walk. He looks exactly like Jon when He was a Child and Everyone in the Village old enough to remember is amused. Now I know You’re thinking to Yourself, does this mean poor Philippe is constantly a frowny little Thing? You’d be surprised to know that Jon was a happy Child and Everyone in Blackburg adored Him.**

**Patrick spoils Him so, and dresses Him like Jon in miniature, much to the amusement of His Husband.**

**And How is Your Own marriage to Mr. Strome? Will there be small sleepy-eyed Cat-Children in the future? Should there be, do tell Them about Their old Uncle Wolf and old Uncle Seabiscuit, and that They send Their Love from England.**

**Your good Friend,**

**Duncan**

 

**RH,**

**Victoire-Marguerite has the exact look of Her Mother. Her poor Father, of course, is already besotted, and She has Him wrapped around Her tiny Finger. He carries Her everywhere, and has asked that Her cradle be moved to His and Patrick’s Rooms. Jon has announced that She will be married to a Man no lesser than a Duke and has already compiled a List of Acceptable Husbands. Which is unfortunate, because Patrick plans on having Her matched with the Children of His American Society Friends. I prophesy that both Their Plans won’t come to fruition, and She will probably fall in Love with some boring Tradesman from Finland or a dark-eyed Italian Opera Singer. Both Patrick and Jon have hushed Me loudly.**

**Patrick slept after the Little One’s Birth and woke up the next Day, walking to His desk to look at the Accounts with Duncan as if there was no Child cut from His womb the Night before. Jon was concerned, of course, but knows enough to not get between Patrick and His Accounts.**

**Me and Duncan are well, though getting old in Our Years. There are a lot of young Men who’ve come to Blackburg now and soon We’ll retire to quietly watch Our Families grow.**

**The three of You are missed.**

**Your Friend,**

**B Seabrook**


	7. epilogue ii - arrivals

* * *

_May 1816, New York Harbor_

_Spring_

The noise at the port was deafening. There were merchants and gawkers, ship agents and shopkeepers, laborers and seamen, all converging in one seething mass of humanity. Men and women in silks, satin, and velvet from the fine houses of New York walked alongside those shouting their wares and carrying rough sacks and cargo on their backs in rags and cheap cloth.

The man was waiting for a carriage. He was wearing a fine coat but covered in dust and animal hair, and his shirt, once a crisp, expensive linen, looked as if he’d slept in it. The man could’ve been called pretty (and he was called so, for some time) but his face was now made rougher by the shadow of a beard.

It was noon, and he’d been told that a green carriage, driven by a team of four matching white horses, would come for him. His instructions were to wait, but it had been an hour and three quarters past the agreed time and he was getting impatient. And hungry.

He whistled for his dogs, who seemed to have left his side to follow some interesting smells around the port. After whistling for a full minute, only one came back, and in his mouth was a chewed-upon lady’s slipper.

“Where in God’s earth did you get that, you rascal,” he laughed, scratching his dog’s chin. “Where are—”

A commotion and a chorus of women’s excited voices from his left startled both of them. One of the ships from London had arrived and its passengers were going down the gangplank, and the group of people to his left seemed like they were waiting for someone.

“Is it them? Jacqueline, move your ridiculous hat, I can’t see,” one of the ladies complained, pushing aside the other young lady beside her, who was wearing a towering, feathered confection. They were a group of four fashionably-dressed ladies seated in an open landau, their features all of the relative sameness that the man easily guessed that the younger three were sisters and that the stately, elegant matron beside them was their mother.

Another landau was parked beside them, this one full of men. There were four men, and like the other, there were three younger men and an elder gentleman. But unlike the ladies, they all differed in looks and stature, so the man surmised that they could either be distant relatives or family acquaintances.

“I didn’t realize the hats were something that ran in Patrick’s family,” a tall blond man in the somber, muted colors of a public barrister said drily, before adding, “Your pardon, Mr. Kane sir.”

The elder gentleman laughed. “My children do love their silly hats, Hayden.”

Beside him, the dark-haired man in a russet coat and a bright, canary-yellow silk cravat checked his pocket watch. “It’s nearly half an hour, how long does it take to dock a ship?”

“The color of that cravat is making me feel ill Hartzy, what on earth possessed you to wear that?” a small man, his boyish face now made more mature with his cheeks rough with stubble, complained. “And you were once so scathing of Patty’s clothes!”

“I wore it because of Patrick,” the man, Hartman, groused. “This was one of his last gifts to me in England.”

“I didn’t figure you for a sentimental man, Hartzy,” the man called Hayden teased him smugly.

“Please Hayden, I’m not the one who has written to Patrick regularly, every month, since we have left England.” Hartman raised an eyebrow. “For six years.”

“I like to be kept abreast of their children’s development,” Hayden shrugged. Hartman scoffed.

“I can’t wait to see them again, and the little ones—oh, oh, it’s them!” Kitty shouted, standing up and causing the landau to sway dangerously.

“Alright, everyone down.” Mr. Kane, having enough of being cramped in a small space with his son’s boisterous friends, pointed out the landau’s door.

There was an excited scramble to alight from both the landaus, the ladies fluttering their fans and parasols while the gentlemen carefully fixed their hats. After a few more minutes, the crowd parted to reveal a family of five, a tall man with hair closely-cropped, two children hiding behind him, and a smaller blue-eyed man with a third child, just out of the cradle, on his arm.

“Patty!” The ladies shrieked once again, and they rushed to the small man, hugging him in turns. The taller man, who seemed to be his husband, said his greetings politely to the elderly couple, his nervousness evident.

“Well, Lord Toews,” the elegant woman said, rapping her folded parasol imperiously on the dock and looking at the man up and down. “We have a lot of things to talk about tonight at dinner.”

“Oh Mother, please,” the blond man, juggling the child on his arm who was starting to fuss, rolled his eyes. His husband took the child from him, cuddling her close and tucking the loose, corkscrew curls under her bonnet. She was the spitting image of her mother, down to the upturned nose. “Well you’ve tired your maman, haven’t you my angel?”

The blond man, Patrick, was urging the two older children who were still shyly clinging to his husband’s legs, forward. “Alexandre, Philippe, go say hello to your grandmama and grandpapa.”

“I am godfather to all three of your children,” Hayden said, coming forward to swing little Alexandre up in his arms when he still didn’t want to come forward, much to his grandparent’s fond but exasperated pleas. “And yet your first born is named after _Kitty_.” Alexandre, handsome with Jon’s dark hair and Patrick’s blue-gray eyes, smiled toothily at him before hugging him.

Beside him, Kitty and Hartman were bent down, trying to coax little Philippe, who was his father in miniature, with sweets from their pockets. The child slowly walked towards them, lured by the bright colors of the sweet treats being waved.

“Just like Peeksy,” Jon, Lord Toews, laughed. The baby laughed with him, a bright happy sound. From nowhere, two large dogs barreled past by him, causing Philippe to shriek _Un totou, papa!_ in delight.

The man observing the reunion felt a little bit nostalgic. He suddenly missed his own sisters, and his mother and father. Spying the promised green carriage in the distance, he dusted his trousers and made a quick count, checking that all three of his dogs were back. He then lifted his small satchel and patted down his coat, making sure that the letter was still there. He’d read it so many times that he could see it in his sleep, but it still gave him comfort, the careful, sloping writing interspersed with words crossed out and blotches of ink.

_Dear Mr. Seguin,_

_I know that this letter comes at an inopportune time, from the news in Boston. But please know that we’re very thrilled to have you here, at Victory Ranch, and wait eagerly for your arrival._

_Yours,_

_J Benn, Owner_

The man looked back at the family, one more time, before going up his carriage. The men and women were busy going back up the landaus, dividing the three children between them. A third carriage was wheeled in, for the couple and a few of their belongings. The taller man held the smaller man’s hand going up, lifting him slightly at the waist when he couldn’t reach the high step leading up the carriage. The smaller man laughed, kissing the taller man softly in thanks , much to the shocked delight of his sisters.

The man smiled. He’d like that, for himself. Maybe out in the West, he’ll have that same love, that same adoration, written in his stars.

* * *

**FIN**


	8. notes and full character list

**GENERAL NOTES**

  * **Author’s Notes**
    * This fic is set into an alternate universe-Regency Era where no one really raises an eyebrow at same-sex marriages and mpreg happens (yes, you read that right)
    * The Patrick and Jonathan in my head are their 2012 versions, especially because that was the era where Patty still had his fluffy curls and that was also the year of Disney-prince hair Jonny, but you may adjust your mental pictures as you see fit. Everyone else is their 2019 versions
    * I have chosen to not indicate every Blackhawk or NHL person/player in this fic in the tags because it would be crazy. I’ve chosen to tag the major characters and just include the names of the special appearances below
    * The Blackhawks rosters used for this fic is from 2007-2018. Regardless of trades or retirements, I've still included a lot of current and former Hawks here because, well. **Once a Hawk, always a Hawk ♥**
    * I've made sure to use American English in writing this fic to make it not too jarring for readers (but of course Canada uses British English but we're also disregarding that)
    * Modern elements have been translated to their closest counterparts to make sure that they would fit ie., Juliette is a pitbull but she is never called that, she's called a mastiff since they're the closest type of dogs in Regency Era England
    * For players, I've mostly put them as either British or American to fit the story, except for certain players, who I referred to the genealogy of their names to use as their countries of origin (for example Schmaltz is German, Hinostroza is Latin American, etc.)
    * For names 
      * I’ve chosen to use their last names as it was common in the Georgian Era/Regency Era for men to be called by their titles/last names in everyday conversation unless…
      * ...they are called by their nicknames/pet names by those who are very close to them, as a term of endearment or to distinguish them from their parent/sibling/relative who also have the same last name as them ie if a man’s father is called Smith, his son might be called Smithy or Younger Smith, etc. or by their childhood pet name
      * The same is followed by Russian names 
        * The Russian nobility usually call each other by their title or last name in everyday conversation unless...
        * … if it’s a family member or close friend, then they are called by a diminutive (nickname) of their name—Temya is for Artemi, Patrick is called Petya because I’ve read that Panarin used to call Pat ‘Pete’ and the closest Russian equivalent to this is Petya (Petya is the diminutive of Pyotr, which is the Russian version of Peter, whose short form is Pete). Panarin calls Jonny ‘Vanya’ as Jon (or John) is Ivan in Russian
        * The formal way of addressing someone in Russian is by their first name and patronymic (component of their personal name based on the given name of their father, grandfather, or an earlier male ancestor) i.e. one of the guests in Panarin’s dinner party calls him “Artemi Sergeyevich”
    * The historical elements have been kept as faithful _as possible_ to 1809-1811 England, excluding some events or tailoring some events to not be mentioned so that it would fit the overall theme of the story. Examples are the Vere Street Coterie Scandal (homosexuality was illegal in England at that time but since this is contrary to the main plot of the story, I have to disregard it) the glaring fact that England was not in good relations with the United States, etc.
    * Despite the fact that England and France have always been at odds with each other, and that there was a war between England and France during this time, I was still able to refer to Jonny's French roots by the Norman invasion and the Protestant Huguenot French families migrating to England to escape persecution in France. For the French player cameos, I've used the migration of the French aristocracy to England to escape the French Revolution
    * All publications mentioned ( _The Botanical Magazine, The Times, The Morning Chronicle_ , etc) are actual Regency Era broadsheets/journals
    * The ships that are mentioned (the _Ranger_ , _Islander_ , _Sabre_ , _Aq Bars_ , etc) are NHL/KHL team names
    * **_There are a lot of easter eggs in this story. Some are 1988 facts or quotes, some are Blackhawks trivia, some are NHL references, some obvious, some obscure, some very tongue-in-cheek—but I’m not going to list them or point them out, unlike the historical references. I’m just going to leave it to you dear readers to find them ♥♥♥_**
  * **Major/Recurring Characters**
    * Jonathan Toews
    * Patrick Kane
    * Patrick Sharp
    * Brent Seabrook
    * Duncan Keith
    * Ryan Hartman
    * John Hayden
    * Alex Debrincat
    * Artemi Panarin
    * Stan Bowman
  * **Ongoing Historical Events**
    * The current monarch is George III
    * The current prime minister is Spencer Perceval
    * The 4th session of Parliament is ongoing
    * The Napoleonic Wars are ongoing
    * The Anglo-Russian War is ongoing
    * The Peninsular War is ongoing



**CHAPTER I NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Paul Goodman
      * Adam Burish
      * Jeremy Colliton
      * Daniel Carcillo
      * Michal Handzus
      * Rocky Wirtz
      * John McDonough
      * Brandon Bollig
      * Andrew Shaw
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * Nico Hischier
      * Nolan Patrick
      * Claude Giroux
      * Sergei Bobrovsky
  * **Historical Events/Persons Mentioned in Chapter:**
    * Rioting in London after the imprisonment of Sir Francis Burdett, MP, who was charged with libel against Parliament after calling for reform of the House of Commons
    * General Union of Spinners organise strikes to raise wages in the smaller cotton centres to that of the Manchester level
    * Alexander I withdraws Russia from the Continental System and trade between Britain and Russia grows
    * _Essayes: Religious Meditations. Places of Perswasion and Disswasion. Seene and Allowed_ is the first published book by the philosopher, statesman and jurist Francis Bacon
    * George Crabbe publishes his epistolary poem, _The Borough_
    * Sir Henry Cavendish dies
    * John Bonnycastle is an English teacher of mathematics and author
    * George William Campbell, 6th Duke of Argyll, is a Scottish Whig politician and nobleman



**CHAPTER II NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Paul Goodman
      * Brad Richards
      * Marian Hossa
      * Denis Savard
      * Joel Quenneville
      * Niklas Hjalmarsson
      * Corey Crawford
      * Bryan Bickell
      * Jeremy Colliton
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * Brendan Gallagher
      * Henrik Lundqvist
      * Sidney Crosby
      * Evgeni Malkin
      * Ryan McDonagh
      * Patrice Bergeron
      * Zdeno Chára
      * John Tortorella
      * Daniel Brière
      * Jeff Carter
      * Mike Richards
  * **Historical Events/Persons Mentioned in Chapter:**
    * Sir Walter Scott publishes his narrative poem, _The Lady of the Lake_
    * _Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded_ is an epistolary novel by English writer Samuel Richardson
    * Jane Austen is an English novelist known primarily for her six major novels, which interpret, critique and comment upon the British landed gentry at the end of the 18th century
    * Lord Byron swims across the Hellespont in Turkey
    * Chlorine is named by Humphry Davy
    * Cuthbert Collingwood, 1st Baron Collingwood, dies
    * The Battle of Trafalgar was a naval engagement fought by the British Royal Navy against the combined fleets of the French and Spanish Navies, during the War of the Third Coalition of the Napoleonic Wars
    * In the Battle of Grand Port, the French forces the Royal Navy fleet attempting to blockade a harbour on Isle de France to surrender
    * “Old Józef” is Joseph II, Holy Roman Emperor
    * Reverend Dr William Pearson establishes Temple Grove School at East Sheen, one of the earliest preparatory schools in the country
    * Mary Tighe, Anglo-Irish poet, dies
    * King George III is recognised as insane
    * Jean-Henri Riesener is a famous German ébéniste (cabinetmaker) whose work exemplified the early neoclassical "Louis XVI style"
    * Charles XIII is the King of Sweden and King of Norway
    * Charles Pratt, 1st Earl Camden, PC is an English lawyer, judge and Whig politician who was the first to hold the title of Earl Camden



**CHAPTER III NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Marian Hossa
      * Niklas Hjalmarsson
      * Corey Crawford
      * Bryan Bickell
      * Artem Anisimov
      * Marcus Kruger
      * Victor Stalberg
      * Erik Gustafsson
      * Anton Forsberg
      * Gustav Forsling
      * Collin Delia
      * Scott Darling
      * Cam Ward
      * Antti Raanta
      * Teuvo Teravainen
      * Brandon Saad
      * Dylan Strome
      * Nick Schmaltz
      * Vincent Hinostroza
      * Darren Raddysh
      * Adam Burish
      * Paul Goodman
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * Anders Lee
      * Gabriel Landeskog
      * Tyson Barrie
      * Nolan Patrick
      * Erik Karlsson
      * Gary Bettman
      * Joe Thornton
      * Marc-André Fleury
      * Sidney Crosby
      * Evgeni Malkin
      * Kris Letang
      * T. J. Oshie
      * Tom Wilson
      * Mark Lazarus
      * Pierre McGuire
      * Alexander Ovechkin
      * Evgeny Kuznetsov
      * Dmitry Orlov
      * Nicklas Bäckström
      * André Burakovsky
      * Vladimir Tarasenko
      * Sergei Bobrovsky
      * Scott Gomez
      * Al Montoya
      * Raffi Torres
      * Peter Chiarelli
  * **Historical Events/Persons Mentioned in Chapter:**
    * Sarah Sophia Child Villiers, Countess of Jersey is an English noblewoman
    * The Anglo-Swedish War commences and Sweden declares war on the United Kingdom
    * William Windham, Whig statesman, dies
    * The Treaty of the Dardanelles between the United Kingdom and the Ottoman Empire is concluded
    * John Debrett is an English publisher and compiler
    * George Bryan "Beau" Brummell is an iconic figure in Regency England and for many years the arbiter of men's fashion
    * Alfred Guillaume Gabriel Grimod d'Orsay, comte d'Orsay is a French amateur artist, dandy, and man of fashion
    * The "Preventive Water Guard", the forerunner of Her Majesty's Coastguard, is now formed
    * William Arden, 2nd Baron Alvanley is a British Army officer, peer and socialite, who was one of the close circle of young men surrounding the Prince Regent
    * The Stalybridge Old Band, one of the first civilian brass bands in the world, is formed
    * Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington, KG, GCB, GCH, PC, FRS is an Anglo-Irish soldier and Tory statesman who was one of the leading military and political figures of 19th-century Britain, serving twice as Prime Minister
    * Sir Joshua Reynolds PRA FRS FRSA is an English painter, specialising in portraits
    * The Battle of Corunna in Galicia happens. The British, under General Sir John Moore, resists an attempt by the French (under Marshal Soult) to prevent them embarking
    * William Combe begins publication of the verse _Tour of Dr Syntax in search of the Picturesque_ in Ackermann's Political Magazine, illustrated by Thomas Rowlandson
    * Richard Gough, antiquary, dies
    * The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane in London is destroyed by fire
    * Hannah Cowley, dramatist, poet and social reformer dies



**CHAPTER IV NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Drake Caggiula
      * Slater Koekkoek
      * Brendan Perlini
      * Dylan Strome
      * Bryan Bickell
      * Corey Crawford
      * Niklas Hjalmarsson
      * Marian Hossa
      * Trevor Van Riemsdyk
      * Kris Versteeg
      * Richard Panik
      * Colin Fraser
      * Ben Eager
      * Jordan Hendry
      * Antony Duclair
      * Brian Campbell
      * Paul Goodman
      * Brandon Manning
      * Andreas Martinsen
      * Denis Savard
      * Joel Quenneville
      * Jeremy Colliton
      * Andrew Shaw
      * Brandon Bollig
      * Adam Burish
      * Brandon Saad
      * Henri Jokiharju
      * Dominik Kahun
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * P. K. Subban
      * Carey Price
      * Jack Eichel
      * Punch Imlach
      * Taro Tsujimoto
      * Clarence Campbell
      * John Tavares
      * Pekka Rinne
      * Juuse Saros
      * Pat Brisson
  * **Historical Events/Persons Mentioned in Chapter:**
    * Cabinet ministers Viscount Castlereagh (Secretary of State for War and the Colonies) and George Canning (Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs) fight a duel with pistols on Putney Heath over policy in the Walcheren Campaign
    * William Cavendish-Bentinck, 3rd Duke of Portland, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, dies
    * The statue of Horatio Nelson by Richard Westmacott, erected by public subscription, is unveiled in Birmingham, the first statue of Admiral Lord Nelson in the country
    * Beilby Porteus, bishop and abolitionist, dies
    * Erasmus Darwin forms the Lichfield Botanical Society to translate the works of the Swedish botanist Carl Linnaeus from Latin into English
    * Matthew Boulton, manufacturer and engineer, dies
    * Theodore Hook starts the Berners Street Hoax and manages to attract dozens of people to 54 Berners Street in London
    * Paul Sandby, cartographer and painter, dies
    * Daniel Lambert, the fattest man in Britain, weighing 52 stones 11 pounds, dies in Stamford, Lincolnshire
    * Thomas Gainsborough FRSA is an English portrait and landscape painter, draughtsman, and printmaker
    * John Henry Manners, 5th Duke of Rutland KG is a British landowner as well as an owner and breeder of Thoroughbred racehorses
    * Benedetto Orsi is an Italian painter of the Baroque period
    * Nosadella, full name Giovanni Francesco Bezzi, is an Italian painter and draftsman, active during the Mannerist period, mainly in Bologna



**CHAPTER V NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Adam Burish
      * Andrew Shaw
      * Brandon Bollig
      * Dylan Strome
      * Dave Bolland
      * Marian Hossa
      * Troy Brouwer
      * Scott Foster
      * Antony Duclair
      * Antoine Vermette
      * Andrew Desjardins
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * Jack Eichel
      * Jeff Skinner
      * Steven Stamkos
      * Auston Matthews
      * Mitch Marner
      * Lars Eller
      * Mikkel Bødker
  * **Historical Events/Persons Mentioned in Chapter:**
    * Bell Rock Lighthouse begins operation off the coast of Scotland
    * George, Prince of Wales becomes Regent because of the perceived insanity of his father, King George III. He is known as the Prince Regent and this is the official beginning of the Regency period
    * The British fleet defeats the French in the Battle of Lissa
    * British naval forces defeat Denmark in the Battle of Anholt
    * The second national Census reveals that the population of England and Wales has increased in ten years by over a million to 10.1 million



**EPILOGUE I NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **Blackhawks Personages/Players (Former/Current)**
      * Alexandre Fortin
      * Dylan Strome



**EPILOGUE II NOTES**

  * **Mentions and Special Appearances**
    * **NHL Personages/Players**
      * Tyler Seguin
      * Jamie Benn



**HELPFUL LINKS**

  * **1809 in the United Kingdom**
    * <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1809_in_the_United_Kingdom>
  * **1810 in the United Kingdom**
    * <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1810_in_the_United_Kingdom>
  * **1811 in the United Kingdom**
    * <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1811_in_the_United_Kingdom>
  * **Regency Era**
    * <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Regency_era>
  * **Social Customs During the Regency Era**
    * <https://janeaustensworld.wordpress.com/social-customs-and-the-regency-world/>
  * **The Man-Midwife in the 18th Century**
    * <https://historianruby.com/2016/07/03/the-man-midwife-in-the-18th-century/>
  * **Farming and the Farming Year**
    * <https://www.historyonthenet.com/medieval-farming-the-farming-year>



**VISUALS**

  * **The Four Feathers**
    * <https://www.theebringtonarms.co.uk/gallery/>
  * **The Kane New York Manor**
    * <https://myfancyhouse.com/2013/03/01/complete-rosewood-country-estate-in-chappaqua/>
  * **Jon’s Cottage**
    * <https://www.realhomes.com/completed-projects/conserving-a-cotswold-cottage>
  * **Gilbert Hall:**
    * <https://www.rettie.co.uk/property-for-sale/east-lothian/gifford/PER150231-6-bed-house-country-home-edinburgh-road>
  * **Hawke House, Before Restoration**
    * <https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/britains-once-largest-private-house-12251962>
  * **Hawke House, After Restoration**
    * <https://www.greatbritishgardens.co.uk/wales/item/erddig-house-and-gardens.html>
  * **Blackburg**
    * <http://britainandbritishness.com/2017/09/10-beautiful-english-villages.html>



**Author's Note:**

> • First of all, thank you to the amazing **Jenny** and **Lexxie** for beta-ing my fic and going through MONTHS of read-throughs (mostly them) and tears (mostly me). If there's anyone I'd like to dedicate this fic to, it'll be them. Thank you so much and I love you both. ♥  
> • Next is a huuuge thank you to my fellow BBFE mods, **Aya** and **Adrienne**. I've been such a disappointment for not meeting the deadline for this fic, but I'm still thankful that you guys have given me the vehicle and energy to write this monstrosity. ♥  
> • Lastly, to **Adrienne** and **Katie** , who were my artists for this fic. I'm really sorry for not making the deadline but thank you and I love you both all the same. ♥
> 
>  
> 
> Cuddlefight me at @cuddlefighter.tumblr.com


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